


Occurrens Mentium

by padalekci



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1944, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animagus, Animagus Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Auror Trainee Harry Potter, BAMF Hermione Granger, Blood and Gore, Boggarts, Coma, Comedy, Conspiracy Theories, Department of Mysteries, Djinni & Genies, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco does not die, Draco hates Hermione's pop culture references, Draco is a conspiracy theorist, Dramione Is Endgame, F/M, Good Pansy Parkinson, Government Conspiracy, Goyle has a thing for Draco, Grand theft auto, Graphic Description, Healer Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Hermione is going to kick Draco's ass, Hermione swears like a goddamn sailor, I felt that was important to add, Magical Bond, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Not Britpicked, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, POV Hermione Granger, Pansy Parkinson is a Good Friend, Patrick Star saying wee woo wee woo wee woo, Plot Twists, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Spies, Spy Draco Malfoy, Spy Hermione Granger, Tags May Change, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Tom Riddle is a whiny bitch, Tom is a minor character, Yes all of these tags are relevant, comedy but also horror kind of, dramione - Freeform, it's funny but also dark, no beta we die like men, oh no
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 108,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27990630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padalekci/pseuds/padalekci
Summary: A Mudblood, a Death Eater, and Voldemort walk into a bar.It'd be a bad joke if things weren’t so miserable.Hermione and Draco find themselves in 1944 with fleeting memories, A teenage Dark Lord, and no clue as to how they ended up fifty years in the past.Nothing makes sense.But maybe it isn't supposed to.They have worse things to return to, after all.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 178
Kudos: 229





	1. Set in Motion

* * *

_**Current Day** _

_“We’re losing her!” Poison, in her mind, her chest, her limbs. It’s pain like no other, though she can’t truly feel it, she’d passed out twenty minutes prior, her body slowly following her mind. “Clear!”_

_Electricity torching through her veins, wrenching her away from the thin veil between worlds with harsh claws._

_“-a stasis charm until she can be stabilized...” She wishes they would let her go. It was painful, worse than torture. The frayed ends of her life force were fading away, drawn to the backlit door in the room. She wanted to go, she’d lived a full enough life to be done. “...transferred to St. Mungo’s long term ward...” Maybe if she slipped away they’d let her. “-an owl to…” She was so tired. Everything was so painful. “-medically induced...”_

_Slowly, she slipped away; scorched nerves calming themselves, wounds ceasing to exist._

Yes _, she thought,_ this is wonderful.

* * *

**_"Well, dreams, they feel real while we're in them right? It's only when we wake up that we realize that something was actually strange."_ **

****[quote by Dom Cobb - Inception, 2010]** **

* * *

_**Two Years Ago**_

“Are you ready?” 

She inhaled, preparing herself before nodding. “Yes” 

Hot daggers in her mind. Nasty, horrid memories she’d rather forget. 

Then it stopped. 

“You have to be better at this.” 

“I know” her throat was tight, the headache was getting worse. It always got worse. “Again” 

Hot daggers, in her mind. A boy with raven hair and an invisibility cloak but no name. Still shots of a three headed dog, a stone, a cloak. 

“You're terrible at this” 

She sipped at her water, gripped the arms of the chair. “Again” 

“No”

She glared at him, willing him to either help or fuck off. He wasn’t going to do either, she knew. “Again” the word escaped through her teeth. 

“Not until you get a better handle on your emotions” 

She glared. “Well _excuse_ _me_ for being a bit thrown off by this whole _experience._ ” 

“What are you thinking of? How are you hiding them?” 

She blinked. “What?” 

He sighed, dragged his hand over his face. “Merlin, we _are_ screwed.” 

Her fist slammed down into the table between them, he didn’t jump. “So _teach_ me.”

“Imagine a library” he narrowed his eyes at her. “You like those, yes?” he kept speaking before she could tell him to get on with it. “Every book is a different memory, a different person, anything you don’t want anyone to see. Clear?” 

“Crystal.” she muttered, urging him to continue with a mere stare. 

“Seal everything away into those books, shelve them, lock them away, whatever.” he tilted his head. “I get flashes now, not memories like before; but you need this mastered before we go in.” He looked outside, towards the empty street. “We don’t have long now.” 

She closed her eyes, imagined all her memories flooding into books and reshelving themselves in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. Harry’s book was cobalt blue, Ron’s was a rusted red. Her parents had a canary yellow tome with silver edged pages. 

“Again”

Hot daggers, in her mind. But nothing else, no memories flashing past her eyelids. 

“We’ll work on false memories tomorrow.” 

She glared. “We don’t have time to wait.” 

“If we do any more of this, I worry about lasting damage.” 

She drank the rest of her water. “Fine.” she looked around the dim room. “We should go over the plan once more.” 

“...I don’t know what you expect by planning this out to every last detail when nothing is certain.” She didn’t either, not really; but she didn’t voice this to him. “It’s bad enough you’ve managed to convince me that this plan-”

“We’ll have the upper hand, you know that”

* * *


	2. Tabula Rasa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t get philosophical, Granger, I’m far too tired for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter word count: 7,400]

* * *

**_Friday, September 1st, 1944_ **

She knew what Tom Riddle looked like. 

Hermione knew all about him. An obsessive amount, the result of too many sleepless nights. Know thy enemy and all that.

At the front of the room, in front of hundreds of wizards none the wiser, Hermione Granger steeled herself, face pale as she sat down on the stool to be sorted. The hat was younger, newer, but the voice was the same as it had always been. 

_“Smart, very smart, brave too, but I knew this the first time 'round, yes. I put you in Gryffindor but I don’t think that will do this go around.”_

Hermione’s face blanched as she glared at the brim of the hat, nearly going cross-eyed in the process. “I belong in Gryffindor.” she practically spat the words. 

_“No no, I know just where to put you.”_ the hat said something else, praising itself and then; _“Slytherin!”_

Hermione Granger in Slytherin. She supposed pigs could fly as well. Merlin, what a colossal fuck up this all was. Whatever Slughorn said to her about Slytherin house wasn’t heard. The walk across the room was nervewracking, dead quiet as she took a seat opposite- _oh fuck._

“Abraxas Malfoy, _pleasure_ to meet you.” his expression was too sweet for his tone and Merlin’s saggy balls, Draco’s grandfather was making eyes at her. A part of her had expected this, but she had no idea why. The absurdity of the situation hadn't completely hit her yet, but she's sure that Malfoy's grandfather acting _like that_ should affect her a little more. 

Hermione sent Draco’s innocuous form a look before accepting the hand, her shoulders stiffening when Abraxas brought her hand to his lips. The wizard was acting like a hormonal teenage boy, his eyes drinking in everything they could and oh fucking Merlin she wanted to curse God himself.

It was all too strange. 

“Hermione Granger” was all the Gryffindor-turned-Slytherin could say in response. Draco didn’t blame her. They were in hell. This was hell. This was all too fucking strange, but Abraxas’s face was plain as he eyed Granger. “I heard Dippet was old, but forgetting an introduction says senility is only a few years off.” she knew how to play a role, she was good at those, yes. In her mind, she told herself that this was what a Slytherin would say. 

Draco’s left arm (was it even an arm anymore?) was heating up, almost painfully so. It was tolerable, but nothing he couldn’t ignore. Still, it was bothersome, to say the least, yet nothing he hadn’t expected. The mark would recognize the magic that made it, old or new. 

The others at the table laughed. Abraxas cleared his throat, “This’s Rodolphus, but we just call him Lestrange,” He pointed down the table “Cygnus Black, and _this_ handsome devil is Tom Riddle” the blond clapped a hand over Riddle’s shoulder and earned a slight glare with the action. 

Draco kept from staring at Cygnus, his mother’s father- _his other grandfather._ This was some backwards ass family reunion and he wanted to crawl into a hole. But no one was looking at him. Who would? He didn’t pose any kind of threat, not to them. Not yet. 

Hermione’s eyes had been following Abraxas’ introductions, but she froze when he said that fucking name. And fucking hell fuck shit fuck it was a teenage Voldemort and she wanted to laugh at how explosively the universe had fucked up. Sure, _expecting_ it is one thing, _seeing_ is another. Maybe she’s dead, maybe that’s what this was. Maybe it was the seventh circle of hell. 

It would make sense. 

They knew who would be at school in 1944, that was obvious, they’d been expecting it, but Hermione wasn’t actually _ready_ to face the teenage dark lord on her first day back in Hogwarts. She’d also hoped to be put in Gryffindor house-but the sorting hat had fucked them both. They were going to draw his attention much easier now, what with them basically _living_ together.

“Pleasure” Riddle smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes-which were brown, a dark brown, almost black. Hermione forced herself not to recoil when he took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles just as Abraxas had. She hated chivalry. The fact that she knew _exactly_ what he would become just made her stomach churn even more. She almost preferred the hideous version of Voldemort from her own time because this one? This one looked harmless at first glance. 

Second glance though; you’d notice the way his eyes were always _on_ something, the way he watched you. The way he didn’t startle at the sudden noises emanating from the other tables-they say psychopaths don’t startle because the fear response just isn’t _there._ Hermione believed it, yes, it made sense. Draco didn’t startle either, but well-he was different. A necessary evil, an evil that had proved himself. Hermione, well, she was no psychopath, maybe a sadist, or something else. But she was dark and twisted as well. To a lesser extent but it was there. Her malice translated in other ways, but part of her stung when she realized that the wizards in front of her didn’t see her as anything other than another skirt, nothing to be afraid or wary of. She would use that assumption but she didn't have to be happy about it. 

“So what brings you here during your last year?” Asked Cygnus, a too-wide grin on his face. “Not exactly normal to get new students outside the first years.” 

The lie was easy on her tongue. “I was suspended before the muggle war started. Too dangerous to go back, suppose I’m stuck here now.” 

“For what?” asked Rodolphus, his eyes narrowed. The question was plain though vague in what he was truly asking.

Hermione knew she had to weave a story, be forthcoming in her _background._ She knew this, but hadn’t expected it so soon “Dark magic” she shrugged, picking at a roll of bread. She was trying to act nonchalant but Draco couldn’t tell how well she was doing-he knew her mannerisms, these boys didn’t. He knew what details to look for, the unconscious things she did like the way her eyes darted to her left arm when someone had a cruel sounding laugh or the way she bit her bottom lip when she was pissed off and trying not to say anything.

“That’s Durmstrang's curriculum,” said Riddle, trying almost too hard to veil his suspicious tone but Draco heard it. The fucker had lived in Draco’s house for years, he knew what made Voldemort tick. “It’s allowed” even with a human voice, the slight cracks in the facade were still present to a knowing ear.

“Not if you use it on other students” Hermione’s tone was the same one she used with a professor after discovering a discrepancy in the textbooks. She was acting just as she needed to. She knew that if she acted like a typical forthcoming Gryffindor, she’d be found out no matter what house she was put in by that fucking hat.

Anything else the boys wanted to ask was cut short as Headmaster Dippet announced the end of the feast, dismissing everyone and disappearing the plates. A few seconds later, Slughorn appeared, smiling all too widely. “I do hope you’re all acquainted now” he rubbed his hands together and put them on Riddle’s shoulders. “Tom here is the head boy, he can give you a tour of the castle before curfew.” 

Riddle’s eyes flashed with something but then it was gone. “I’d be honored” he tilted his head graciously, smiling at Hermione. It still didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Wonderful!” Slughorn clapped his hands together, eyes darting between the seventh years. “I do hope you’ll be happy here in Slytherin” he didn’t see the way Riddle rolled his eyes, but Draco did. When Voldemort rolled his eyes, it wasn’t a complete eye roll, just a glance at the ceiling. _Apparently_ splitting your soul up into seven pieces didn’t erase your mannerisms from your teenage self. “You’ll get into the swing of things quickly.” 

“I’m sure I will, thank you, professor.” Hermione gave her best smile, the one her mother had taught her to use during polite conversation. It was easy, practiced. 

Abraxas stood from the bench, Cygnus and Rodolphus following suit. “Well we’re off, see you in the common room” he let his eyes linger on Hermione for too long. Draco wanted to throw up. At this rate, the witch would be his grandmother in a matter of months. He knew how pureblood betrothals worked, and in _today’s_ world, things moved much faster- should a wizard fancy a witch. 

Occlusion Occlusion Occlusion. 

He could only hope Hermione was doing the same.

“Well, I’ll be going as well, the first years need a tour of their own.” Said Slughorn, still far too cheery compared to Professor Snape and the way he handled his house. Draco considered it blasphemy for the man to act in such a Hufflepuff-like manner.

Hermione let out a sigh of relief when the professor waltzed off, choosing to stare at a spot on the table. But then her shoulders threatened to stiffen once more after realizing she was going to be alone with an aspiring dark lord. Albeit _with_ Draco, but he could hardly count as an ally at the moment, given the fact he was in animagus form for the purpose of spying. She kept herself languid on purpose; smooth, graceful, elegant. Everything she was not. 

Riddle stood from the table, beckoning with his fingers. “Come on, this way.” his voice didn’t sound the same, Draco realized why it seemed so strange. But it didn’t, not really. Tom Riddle hardly looked the same. Draco had been mentally preparing himself for this since they figured out _when_ they were. It only made sense that the dark lord sound just as different as he looked. A deep baritone compared to that serpentine hiss. Worlds apart, yet the same if you paid real attention-what with the way he drew words out. 

The pair of them followed Riddle out of the great hall, surprised when he actually started giving them a tour, punctuated with facts from _Hogwarts; a History._ Hermione’s mouth went sour at the realization he’d read her favorite book and was now parroting it back to her, word for word. Another thing, ruined. 

She savored the anger, knew she’d need it to follow their plan, to keep up appearances.

“I’ll show you the Astronomy tower, it seems that’s the hardest to find,” Riddle said, his tone plain, almost nice. He had a hand on the banister of the staircase as he moved, and Hermione’s brow furrowed when they got off on a landing that _did not_ lead to the astronomy tower. It was a straight shot if they stayed on the staircase for another few flights. He was trying to confuse her, prevent her from keeping her bearings. 

“How kind of you,” Said Hermione, her tone far too sweet for how condescending it came out. Riddle didn’t seem to notice, because of course he wouldn’t. He was a psychopath, he didn’t understand human emotion. Didn’t experience empathy. He wouldn’t notice. 

“Odd you don’t have an accent,” Said Riddle. “I thought Durmstrang was in Scandinavia?” 

Hermione stiffened, thinking she was caught in a lie but Draco’s voice echoed in her mind with a lie-almost like they'd planned it. “The curriculum is taught in English, they have students from all over Europe.” she knew Riddle knew that. It was a test. Everything was a test with him. Nothing changes. They had planned for questions, suspicions. 

Riddle nodded. “Why Durmstrang? I hear a London accent” 

“I wanted to study the dark arts without living with the presumptive stares,” said Hermione. “And the library was well stocked.” She was learning to blend in; could use more practice, but whatever. Draco would give her pointers later, when he could talk. 

“And they allow _foxes?”_ Riddle eyed the animal trailing alongside Hermione, his face impassive.

Hermione looked down at Draco. “In special cases, yes” they’d agreed that two students transferring to Hogwarts would draw suspicion, especially if they happened to know each other, it would be far from coincidental. It was by pure luck that Draco had mastered his being an animagus. Pure luck that the entire House of Black seemed to take after canine forms when the animagi spell was called upon. 

Riddle nodded again, turning down a hallway and walking up a staircase, back to reciting the entirety of a history book. It was unnerving, the way he misplaced emotion in his words. Maybe to someone that didn’t know what he would become, it would be glossed over, but to someone that _knew,_ it was creepy. He put too much effort into acting human. He was probably overthinking on a greater scale than Hermione Granger herself; and she’d been mindful of the way she walked, spoke, sat, stood, since she’d walked across the great hall. Yet she’d still managed to not seem robotic.

Eventually, they reached the astronomy tower, which should not have taken an hour to get to, but Hermione didn’t try correcting Riddle. Draco knew he was planning something. It was a test. Always tests. So many fucking tests. He was used to them, sure, but they had grown annoying rather quickly when the dickhead was living at the manor. Hermione knew of the tests as well, he’d warned her.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’ve got to get started on my rounds” Riddle stood a few feet from the door, Draco and Hermione opposite him, trying to look interested or even surprised at the view. It was a familiar sight, the grandeur had worn off long ago, especially given the _murder_ that had happened-or will happen. Hermione’s eyes stayed away from the railing, she was afraid of what her mind might show her. Draco was far better at deception, he didn’t seem bothered. But really, he wasn’t. Bothered, that is. 

Not that an animal being uneasy would throw off any alarms in Tom Riddle’s brain.

“I’m sure I’ll be able to find my way back sooner or later,” Hermione replied, hiding suspicion with charm. She wanted to throw up. 

Riddle’s eyes flitted between them, guarded but not from Occlusion. He might be a Legilimens, but Occlumency took a lot of practice if you weren’t born with the gift. “Curfew is in an hour.” And then he was gone, disappearing down the stairs. Draco’s arm-leg?- cooled, the mark calming down, no longer calling out to its master. Either way, he’d had enough of being a canine. 

Hermione let out a deep sigh but said nothing. Draco was standing next to her, human again, if only for a moment. Together, they stared out at the expanse of the forbidden forest, minds far away. Any similar mishaps with time turners were unheard of, and the magic that powered the things wasn’t an exact science, barely understood by the people that made them. But then again, is that really how they ended up there? They were both thinking the same thing. 

Hermione’s voice broke the silence. “Do you think we’ll ever get back?” 

Draco’s eyes snapped to hers. “I don’t know” it was an honest answer for once. He blinked when he realized the flamelike sensation licking up his forearm. _Morsmordre_ recognizing its master once more. But it was dull, like Riddle was far away, not as close as before. The heat was only growing more intense.

Hermione nodded but said nothing else. 

“I can feel him,” Draco muttered, voice low. 

“Okay,” she nodded. “So the mark reacts to him?” her eyes fell to his sleeve, if for a fraction of a second, but then they were back on Draco’s face. “That’s good actually, very good” she nodded to herself. “He can’t find out about that” 

“We should get back”

Hermione only nodded. “Back to what?” she looked at Draco, surprised when she saw that his hair was a mess, his face gaunt. “There’s nothing to get back _to.”_

“Don’t get philosophical, Granger, I’m far too tired for it.” Draco’s voice was missing the normal argumentative tone he happened to have when speaking to the witch. 

She only shot him a look and started towards the stairs, the two of them in silent agreement that they keep their mouths shut on their way down to the dungeons. They had to tread lightly, but the revelation that Draco’s dark mark would react whenever Riddle was near would work in their favor. It’d be easier than they thought. This was war, inception, trickery. Draco was good at it, and Hermione, well she was too-she’d been around the dynamic duo enough that _something_ should have rubbed off on her, some kind of tact. 

They reached the landing, and Draco dragged Hermione to an alcove he’d visited enough times to have every inch memorized. “You look like you’re about to hurl.” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “It’s a tad bothersome, playing nice with the evil overlord we’re trying to _kill_ in the future.” 

“They’ll see right through you if you don’t get that-” he gestured to her face “in check.”

Hermione glared at him. “Any other _pointers?”_ her voice was a quiet hiss.

“Stay away from Abraxas, and Cygnus” he shuddered involuntarily. “I don’t need the timeline to get screwed up because you happened to fall in love with one of my grandfathers.” 

Hermione snorted. “Ah yes, because they’re so _desperate.”_ it was teasing, spiteful. 

Draco rolled his eyes. She was always so quick to anger when it came to anything involving him. “Don’t mistake my realizing that my grandfathers were horny teenage boys at one time for something else.” he sighed, shaking his head. “Purebloods tend to propose first, ask questions later. If either has an eye on you-” he trailed off and carded his hair. “Are you saying you _want_ me to be happy when I think about the possibility of you potentially being my grandmother by some backwards timeline coming to fruition? Do you want me to start calling you _granny?”_ he narrowed his eyes. “This is all too _strange,_ Granger-even for me.” 

Hermione froze, her mind working, and then burst into laughter, quickly stifling it with her hand. “I think you’re overreacting, Abraxas was just being _nice.”_ she shook her head. “And Cygnus barely spoke to me” 

“Abraxas Malfoy is far from _nice.”_ Draco hissed, “You thought _my_ father was bad, he’s not a quarter of _his_ father.” 

“Fine, just-” she trailed off, thinking. “Don’t even talk about that, I’ll be sick, my God” she shuddered. “there’s no way, rest assured.” 

“Good”

_“Good”_

They stared at each other a moment, less bristly but still on edge. “We need to get going before the _head boy_ finds you hidden away in one of the makeout spots.” 

Hermione only glared. “You’re the one that dragged me in here!” 

“Because our conversation was one best not overheard, especially by the one person we _have_ to deceive,” he muttered. It was like _talking_ about Riddle summoned him because the heat was intensifying faster than before, probably because Riddle was just patrolling the halls like a good little head boy instead of creeping around corners waiting to catch Hermione and her seemingly four-legged _friend_ in some heinous crime. 

“Speak of the devil” he muttered, reaching in his pocket to make sure his wand was there. It was. It always was. “He’s coming.” 

Hermione nodded and pushed Draco out of the alcove, starting down a hallway that Riddle hadn’t shown them, but she knew exactly where it went-

“We’re going to the Slytherin dungeons, not Gryffindor tower.” Draco hissed, pulling her down a different hallway and towards a set of stairs she’s sure never existed before that moment. “He’s close.” 

Hermione reached the landing, which happened to lead to a hall just outside the entrance to Slytherin. “That doesn’t make any sense” she stated, looking at the staircase, at the hallway they’d just come from-she could see it, only thirteen steps away. “We were on the sixth floor and this is the basement.” 

“We have tricks, Granger. You’ll have to learn them if you want to survive here.” was all Draco said before brushing past her, but Hermione was too busy watching the flight of stairs fade away to a granite wall like the passage was never there. 

Awestruck at learning something new about the castle, she hurried after him. “What do you do?” she wanted- _needed_ to know. “How do you summon them?” It was a welcome distraction to her mind.

“The castle just knows when they’re needed,” he said it quietly as he reached a blank expanse of wall. “I’ll show you the wand work for it later.”

Hermione nodded. “I hope you know the password.” she had no idea if anyone even told them what it was. She’d been too busy thinking and acting nonchalant-which was a feat in itself when she was on edge all the time.

“I don’t think anyone told you,” Draco muttered, twirling his wand in his hands. It was a nervous habit. 

Hermione gaped at him. “Do I wait out here? Is it another test?” 

“I think it was just Slughorn being inept at his job. Or hazing.” Draco shook his head. “This is humiliating.” 

“Wait-” she pulled Draco back from the wall and tried to pull from distant memories-she’d developed a penchant for parseltongue after living with Harry. “Parseltongue works” 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “No, it doesn’t” 

“Just shut up and turn back into a dog before anyone sees you, you’re cutting this a little close.” 

“I hate this plan” was all he muttered before his tall, lanky form melted into that of a sleek silver fox; his hair _-fur?-_ a glossed black, tipped with grey and following the mask pattern that all foxes tended to boast. The only odd coloring on his body was a stark white blotch where his dark mark would be. 

“How do you think Harry broke into Slytherin?” she teased him with a simple lie, allowing herself to laugh before hoping, _praying,_ that she had remembered correctly. _“Open"_ the word felt foreign, dark on her tongue but a second later, the wall was a mere apparition. “Come on” she refrained from dragging him through the faux wall by the scruff of his neck.

The ceilings were arched, carved from stone and the whole common room seemed cavelike, even with the cozy furniture and fireplaces. Plush green carpets were spread throughout the room, a card table in the corner, shelves of books along one wall. Hermione’s eyes caught there, letting herself relax when she found titles she had read and enjoyed. 

“Oh you must be the new girl” smiled a girl with red hair and light eyes, jolting up from her place next to the fireplace. “I’m Allison Parkinson” 

“Hermione Granger” she shook Allison’s hand, smiling. “Nice to meet you” she was half relieved that she didn’t share any of Pansy’s likeness-it’d be easier to avoid a slip-up. The others she’d met had looked just enough like their spawn to make her uneasy. 

Allison’s eyebrows raised slightly when her eyes caught sight of Draco. “You’ve a very pretty animal.” her light grey eyes turned back to Hermione. “A unique familiar, don’t see many that have foxes anymore.” 

Hermione stayed quiet, not quite knowing what to say. 

The redhead nodded to herself. “Well that would explain your housing arrangements, allergies, and whatnot.” she turned on her heel, beckoning Hermione to follow. “You’re in a private room, so no roommates” her eyes darted down to Draco once more. “I really should have thought of that, it makes sense. Cats aren’t allowed as of late.” 

Hermione didn’t ask her to elaborate. And she wasn’t going to try to understand Slytherins or what they were saying by not saying something. “So are you the head girl?” 

Allison laughed. “Oh god no, then I’d have to deal with Riddle for more than ten minutes” she looked over her shoulder, a knowing smile on her face. “Don’t get any ideas with him, he only seems interested in getting in and out of here.” 

“I see” she didn’t see. Was Allison warning her to stay away from Riddle? She already knew that much. 

“Head girl though, that’s Minerva McGonagall, an alright gal aside from the fact she’s in Gryffindor. They’ve put you in a prefect’s room since we don’t have many this year, what with the muggle war and all.” Allison paused outside a door. “This’s you, I’m right next door if you need anything.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” Hermione was laying it on thick, but with Draco being the only comparable Slytherin she’d ever interacted with, she figured she had to cover all her bases and try to be nice. 

Allison nodded. “Well, us girls have to stick together, s’only the three of us here.” she shook her head. “The muggle war has a lot of families continuing school at home until it’s over.” 

She didn’t know what else to say, how to continue the conversation. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you in the morning then.” 

“Breakfast’s at nine-thirty on weekends, we usually meet in the common room a bit before so we can walk together.” Allison smiled. “You can meet my roommate then, she’ll be thrilled to have another girl around.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

They parted ways, entering their dorms and Hermione made sure she locked the door and put up a few spells ensuring privacy before collapsing against the wall. The telltale shifting of a cloak signalled that Draco was in human form once again. 

“When was Potter here?”

Hermione shrugged. “Chamber ordeal, you know the one.” Hermione looked around at the arching ceilings, the views of the black lake’s stark emptiness. “I had to brew polyjuice for them, they were Crabbe and Goyle for a bit to spy on you.” 

It was silent for a moment before Draco clicked his tongue. “I knew Goyle couldn’t read.” 

Hermione laughed, remembering Harry’s retelling of things. “They told me about that.” she gave him a half heated stare. “They also said you hoped it was me that the basilisk killed next.” 

Draco only shrugged. “If we’re going to be living together, I think it best you leave the past in the past.” 

“Interesting choice of words, considering.” 

“Sod off” 

Hermione ignored him, opting to pull the trunk set at the end of the bed closer before rifling through the trivial items she’d packed. Her beaded handbag lay at the bottom, wrapped in winter robes. It’d been on her when they woke up, thus arming her with the same arsenal she’d had in the ’90s. She’d been terrified that the school would do if they happened to search her things; confiscate the only proof she had of her home, _their_ home. 

There was the marauder’s map, which she only happened to have by chance, but it would come in handy if it worked. Harry’s invisibility cloak, destroyed Horcruxes, her clothes, the tents with everything inside. Potions ingredients she’d collected while on the run, various balms, healing poultices, and draughts of all sorts. Even some of Draco’s things-the clothes he’d been wearing when they were thrown back in time, a few more things of his she’d had to look after before they were thrown into the mess they called 1944. 

“Everything there?” 

“Seems like” 

They fell into silence as Hermione catalogued everything in the bag. Draco knew better than to question her; this was what she did every night before sleeping, a compulsion caused by the war- _their war._ There was no way to get her to stop until she got all the way through the bag. It took well over an hour, with her being such a hoarder. 

“Hell’s this?” Draco picked up the Marauder’s Map, opening it, looking at her when it stayed blank. “Taking inventory of blank paper now?” 

Hermione held out her hand. “It’s a map” she held her wand to the page and ignored the look she knew she’d get from the blond. _“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”_ the castle bled into existence, the ink appearing and reappearing as those still out and about walked the castle. “It’s good that it still works.” she handed it to Draco, busying herself with the vials of potion ingredients. 

“So _this_ is how you and those two dolts managed to have free reign of the castle...” he sent her a look before examining the map more thoroughly, following a person’s footsteps with his fingertip. 

They fell silent, each busy avoiding their thoughts with the things at hand. Hermione was almost done with her inventory, shrinking everything back down before moving on to the next section of the bag. 

Pictures. 

She knew it was stupid, downright dangerous to have them, but she couldn’t bring herself to be rid of them. So she’d charmed them to look like tickets to various plays she’d found in the daily prophet. She was meticulous in making them seem normal, plain, just as they should look. Even the dates lined up. If someone was to go through the bag, most things would seem normal enough, but the pictures were proof of where Hermione had come from.

There were the three of them at the burrow on Christmas. Another celebrating something in the Gryffindor common room-something to do with quidditch, Hermione couldn’t remember now. Her parents, smiling at her as she boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time. The rest were plain pictures, not from the wizarding world; she’d taken them with a disposable camera over a summer. 

Those were the ones that hurt the most. 

Ron, smiling widely as he held a hand out, intending to block the camera. Harry’s face peeking out from his invisibility cloak, a mere floating head. Arthur and Molly Weasley smiling in the kitchen of the Burrow. Fred and George, covered with something that resembled neon pink ectoplasm, their smiles wide. Ginny holding a scowling Crookshanks. A friendly game of quidditch between the Weasleys and Harry in the backyard. Neville in Diagon Alley with a potted plant of some kind. Luna with her glasses, looking up at a tall tree, smiling in wonder. Hagrid and the three of them with butterbeer at a back table in the Leaky Cauldron. 

“Granger”

She startled, looking up at Draco. “What?”

“Better hide that stuff” 

“Why?” 

Draco stared at her a moment. “As much as I hate to interrupt your trip down memory lane, _this_ tells me you’re about to have a visitor.” he held up the map. 

Hermione cast the spell that would conceal the pictures back to playwrights and ticket stubs, stacking them all before depositing them into a pocket of the handbag. There was nothing else incriminating, other than the map, which Draco handed to her without a word. 

_“Mischief managed”_ she mumbled, throwing the bag and map into a drawer in the nightstand. 

“You need to-” before she could even finish her sentence, Draco’s canine face was staring at her, almost smug. Well, as smug as a fox could look, she supposed. “Prat” 

The only response he had was to jump up on the bed and pretend to be asleep; Hermione knew he couldn’t keep to his form should he _actually_ be asleep. As much as she hated to admit it, he could act the part of a lazy pet. Hermione teased him for it relentlessly. It always ended with him sulking in a corner, but she figured she’d keep pissing him off until they were even for his tormenting her over the years. 

A few seconds later, there was a loud knock at her door. One, two raps and then nothing. 

Hermione dispersed the spells she’d cast to keep anyone from spying on the apparent time travelers and pulled the door open to see _Tom Riddle_ standing on the other side. _Great, just fucking great._

“Settled in, I take it” 

Hermione followed his gaze to the trunk still open on the floor, clothes strewn across the room. “Getting there.” 

Riddle only nodded. “You didn’t have any issues getting back to the dormitory?” 

“Asked a portrait for directions.” she didn’t care that her tone was scathing. It would only make sense that she wasn’t afraid of him, she was new, she wasn’t supposed to know to be wary. Anything else would throw him off. Unless he did something to warrant fear, she wouldn’t show it. Hermione Granger was _tired_ of living in fear. It was a thing of her past.

Riddle nodded. “I do apologize for that, it’s not every day I’m asked to give a tour of the castle.” 

“Best be sure you put it on the list for the next time, Riddle.” 

“Please, call me Tom.” 

She raised an eyebrow. No way in hell was she calling him by his first name-she didn’t even call Draco by his first name; granted half of it was stubbornness, the other familiarity, but still, _no way in hell._ “Was there anything else?” 

He stared at her a moment, eyes scanning her face before he stood taller. “Who let you inside? I realized I’d forgotten to tell you the password.” 

“Allison-she happened to hear me knocking” Hermione shrugged. With Allison’s blatant dislike of the man, she knew that the witch would back her, should he ask, but she doubted he would. She’d given him no reason to doubt her. “It’s good she happened to be in the common room, else I’d have been out there who knows how long.” 

“Yes, very fortunate.” he drew the words out as if he didn’t believe them either. His eyes darted to Draco’s form on the bed. “Seems your familiar has settled in nicely” 

Hermione followed his gaze once more. “Suppose so” her eyes moved to Riddle’s. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get to bed, big day tomorrow and all that” she wanted him gone, this was not how she wanted to end her night. No, talking to Tom Riddle was at the bottom of her list of priorities. 

“Of course” he was trying to be cordial but his tone was missing anything _real._ “If you need anything, I’m just across the hall” 

Hermione nodded, hiding a grimace. “Thanks” 

She shut the door before he could find something else to bring up in _innocent conversation._ Hermione slid down against the door and recast the spells she’d picked up from Moody’s paranoid self. 

There was a shifting of fabric and then Draco’s voice. “Well that went _swimmingly”_

“Shut the hell up Malfoy” her voice was muffled with her knees drawn up to her chest. 

For once, he did shut up. The more time they spent together, the more they understood each other’s limits. Draco had learned not to piss her off monumentally, otherwise she might send a hex towards him when he wasn’t looking. She was more pleasant to be around when she wasn’t being a complete bitch.

They were stuck sharing a dorm room in Slytherin house. If Hermione didn’t know any better, she’d think she was in some cheap sitcom that kept getting approved for a new season even though the episodes only aired at three in the morning. Two rivals, thrown back in time to live with their apparent arch-nemesis while sharing a room and trying _not_ to kill each other. It’d garner a two-star rating, at most. 

“Any food in that purse of yours?” 

“We’ll have to go to Hogsmeade for more soon.” With Draco ‘hidden’ they couldn’t chance anyone finding Hermione with her pockets stuffed with food, and Draco had flat out refused her table scraps idea. “Or the kitchens before curfew tomorrow night.” 

Draco made a growling noise in his throat and Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. _“Really?”_

He stood. “I’m showering, cook something.” 

In any other version of the situation, Hermione would have argued with him but they had a rhythm, as strange as she found it. And Malfoy was a shitty cook when it came to instant food. An upside to her being in a prefect’s room was the ensuite bathroom; she hadn’t known how they were going to deal with that before but this was more than convenient. They’d come up with some ideas, like sneaking to the showers late at night or using the room of requirement, but she’d been hoping for some kind of miracle. She supposed this was it. 

Maybe it was just Father Time trying to keep them from causing too many ripples. 

Either way, she pulled a cast iron pot from a shrunken tent’s kitchen-she really needed to make a list of things to keep outside the bag so she didn’t have to keep digging around for things. It wasn’t hard to boil water and add the boxed pasta. If Malfoy had an issue with Kraft Mac & Cheese, she didn’t want to hear about it.

Draco’s things flew across the room, startling Hermione for a moment before realizing the bastard accio’ed his clothes from the bathroom. She only shook her head and split the food between two bowls, casting a stasis charm on his while she ate hers. Eating in the great hall proved difficult while trying not to empty her stomach contents on her shoes in the presence of Riddle and his cronies. 

When Draco emerged from the bathroom, dressed in the pajamas they’d ‘borrowed’ from a shop in Hogsmeade, Hermione busied herself with shrinking down her books for the semester. Some were familiar, some weren’t. The inquisitive side of her mind wanted to compare and contrast her Hogwarts experiences, the other parts told her to grin and bear it, just get through the year. Her pride wouldn’t let her fail a class or earn less than an A on her assignments, so she knew she was actually going to have to try to some degree in class, no matter how much the logical part of her mind chastised her. 

“What is this?” 

“Macaroni and cheese” she answered, not even looking up at him, having finished her own meal and _scourgified_ the dishes. “From a box.” She didn’t have to look at him to see the disgusted look he most definitely had on his face. 

The room fell quiet once more, and Hermione got to work collecting everything she needed to shower; it wasn’t much, but she made sure to grab her clothes. 

“It’s not that bad.” 

Hermione scoffed on her way to the bathroom. “I’ll have to make you ramen next.” 

Anything he said in reply wasn’t heard as she shut the bathroom door behind her. 

Draco shook his head, not completely put off by the food. He knew that living in secret right under Riddle’s nose would prove difficult, but he’d accepted that long before they forged letters from the Durmstrang Headmaster informing Dippet of Hermione Granger’s enrollment status. Between the pair of them, they’d planned things out extensively, partially because Hermione was so anal about everything, and Draco was paranoid-that’s what happened to you after living in a manor filled with enemies.

Another reason they had to keep his being there a secret; the dark lord had never seen Hermione Granger’s face. But Draco Malfoy-well he was Voldemort’s pet project, subjected to Bellatrix’s training, along with countless tests. Not to mention he was the youngest Death Eater in some time. Killing the headmaster had earned him a few points, which only made the dark lord angrier when Draco defected from the movement to side with the Order at the Battle of Hogwarts. If Voldemort recognized Draco in his earlier memories, he might just kill him in the future instead of giving him the dark mark. Keeping their interactions to a minimum seemed paramount, but he doubted that would last. 

Thinking about the theories of the time-space continuum made his head hurt. 

Hermione often asked him why he was suddenly okay with being her lap dog but she still didn’t quite understand that Draco Malfoy would do anything to survive. It was why he’d switched sides; Voldemort had been hinting at Draco’s lack of usefulness after Dumbledore’s murder, and he figured the Order would _love_ the inside information. He’d hated the idea at first, but after thinking it through, he knew that acting as the witch’s familiar would work in their favor. 

He was a Slytherin, through and through. He planned ten steps ahead. Even here, in 1944, he was ensuring his survival by latching onto Hermione in such a way; he didn’t _have_ to live in the castle in animagus form, but it was the safest option. Where else was he supposed to go? Where else were _they_ supposed to go? Hogwarts was the one place they knew had a library and every potion ingredient they would need if they ever found a way to return to their home time. It’d been easiest to just assimilate themselves into the school, albeit one of them in the form of a fox.

Even so, he wasn’t all that pissed about having to play man’s best friend to Hermione anymore. She wasn’t all that bad. Or he was developing Stockholm syndrome. She _was_ the only person he’d had continuous access to. 

It was unhealthy, the way they were suddenly forced to rely on one another, but there was nothing else they could do about it. If he had to be stuck with any of the golden trio, he’d probably pick Hermione. She was the smartest out of the three, and the least pompous. Draco knew he’d kill Weasley if he was locked in a room with the git for ten minutes. Potter would make Draco _avada_ himself with the high and mighty talk the bastard was prone to spout. 

Hermione was a lesser evil. He hadn’t chosen her, but he was still surprised when he realized he was fine with being around her. Just fine, nothing more, nothing less. She wasn’t the bane of his existence anymore. That’s the only way he could describe their less than typical relationship-if he could even call it that. 

Draco was yanked from his thoughts when Hermione emerged from the bathroom in her pajamas. He had no idea that muggles slept in such disarray the first time he’d seen her in loose plaid pants and a tee-shirt that erased all of her form, but he assumed it was best she looked like she was wearing a potato sack. 

Yes, for the best. 

“I can just charm the bed, you don’t have to sleep on the floor like a…” she stopped herself, looking up at him with an apologetic expression.

“I believe it’s called method acting, Granger.” he held his wand up, eyebrows raised. “And you forget; I’m a wizard.” he wordlessly conjured a four-poster bed rivaling the one already in the room. 

“I’ll add disillusionment charms to it tomorrow.” 

“You know we can’t just have a second bed in here, people will talk.” He tilted his head at her, moving to sit on his bed. “They’ll want to come in eventually. A disillusionment charm will only do so much.” 

Hermione sighed, taking a seat on her bed. “Oh yeah, because I’m looking to have a sleepover with Pansy’s grandmother” 

“Goyle’s grandmother, actually” Draco peeled the blankets back on the bed, satisfied with what he’d conjured. “Allison’s younger brother is Pansy’s grandfather.” he leveled her with a stare. “How else would they continue the Parkinson name?” 

“The pureblood family tree looks more like a wreath every time I learn something new.” 

Draco didn’t say anything, because he’d thought the same. The sacred 28 and their ideations about keeping the purebloods pure had always confused him. Now that he was ‘recovered’ from the pureblood movement, it only made him sick if he thought about it for too long. It was why he’d refused Pansy’s advances, why he’d tried everything he could to get out of his betrothal to a Greengrass sister. Something about marrying a cousin-no matter how distant-unnerved him. 

He’d always planned to find a pureblood from a different continent to marry should he ever decide to further the Malfoy name. With the way things looked, he didn’t mind that the name died with him. 

The room fell silent for a bit, but neither spoke to break it. Not just yet. Hermione reveled in the silence, oddly disconcerted by it, like always. Silence often brought problems, but as time dragged on, she found that was just an odd feeling she’d developed. Draco never knew what to say, didn’t want to start a conversation with the witch very often because it usually led to arguing or something even worse-bonding.

“Still think you can do this?” 

Hermione shrugged, settling into her bed. “I don’t have a choice.”

The silence that ensued seemed to pound in their ears.

“Goodnight Granger” 

“Night, Malfoy”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, if any are noticed, please let me know.  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated.  
>    
> [Chapter word count: 7,400] <\- this is more for me than y'all but it's handy to know if you're doing the whole 'one more chapter before bed' thing.
> 
> Listen up Lindas (and Leonards),
> 
> This is the first Dramione work that I felt confident enough to drag out of the google doc vault. I’m not saying that it’s award-winning or anything, but I wanted it to be out there somewhere. Anyone reading this is probably going to want to murder me, but it’s fine. I have scenes and ideas that I want out there in the nether, and no one else is going to put them down since they’re from my own giant brain and unless the government really is monitoring my thoughts through my microwave, nobody knows about ‘em.  
> If you’re looking for britpicked shit and canon characterizations you won’t find that here- I’m a stubborn American with a superiority complex. I write them like I see in my brain and if you don’t like it eat my ass.  
> Pip pip cheerio, fuckers


	3. Woodsman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had no reason to be watching her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter word count: 7,300]

* * *

_9/1/44 _

_Diary,_

_The new student from Durmstrang-she is strange. Very strange. She seems far too comfortable with the castle-I know that any ordinary person would be dumbstruck at the sight of the grand staircase or the great hall’s ceiling but she hardly reacted. I’ve watched the others, I know what reactions are correct and hers were just wrong. Wrong. It’s all wrong and very interesting._

_Even more interesting; I dragged her through half the castle in order to get to that awful astronomy tower and she managed to get back to the slytherin common room, even though I had not shown it to her. I know that I am just being paranoid, she could have just asked a portrait, as she said, but something about the pair unnerves me. I don’t believe that the Parkinson girl let them in. No one gave them the password. I will have to ask around. I could be overreacting. They are new, unfamiliar and it’s already throwing me off._

_I cannot afford that, not now, not ever._

_The initiative is more important than ever._

_This Granger, she is not afraid of me. I find it refreshing. The other students, my classmates, they figured long ago that I am different, strange; they refuse to challenge me, speak to me in an impolite manner. I find it fun to bother her. I had no reason to knock on her door after my rounds, yet I found myself outside her room. At dinner, she was odd. I saw her face when sorted into Slytherin. She looked sick._

_The animal of hers, it strikes me as suspicious. I researched Durmstrang for months, yet I can’t recall a single shred of information on the allowed familiars-surely if canines were allotted to students it would be advertised? It’s an oddity welcomed in some circles, surely the institution would capitalize on that interest?_

_I may write to a source if the library fails me._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/4/44 _

_Diary,_

_I have yet to learn more of her. She has blended in much too easily. Hermione, they call her. She is smarter than she lets on. I have been watching. Be it in Potions or Charms or Defense against the Dark arts, her hand will twitch and then stop; she will share a look with that animal of hers and she will sit and just listen. She does not take notes. She does not raise her hand to answer a question._

_During lunch, I found her schoolwork, a quiz from potions. She scored perfectly, though most of the questions had been set up for the students to fail; Slughorn wanted an idea of who to invite to that god awful club. No one, aside from_ _me_ _, has ever scored perfectly on such a quiz. I think she cheated, but nothing showed up when I checked for spelled ink and the like._

_Granger, a common name in the muggle world. I do wonder where that came from. Is she a half-blood? She is a conundrum. The witch speaks like a tryhard pureblood, but the way she moves is anything but graceful. I see the way she forgets things, forgets how to act like a proper lady. She is far too smart._

_T.R._

* * *

**_Tuesday, September 5th 1944_ **

Hermione was surprised to develop a routine so quickly. She’d expected far worse from her Slytherin _imprisonment_ but it proved to be anything but. Her housemates were decent enough, a bit standoffish but Allison Parkinson and Elizabeth Nott seemed to like her just fine. Abraxas, Cygnus, and Rodolphus followed Riddle around like lost puppies, but Hermione knew why. 

Maybe if she hadn’t, she would have been more curious. 

Either way, she wasn’t going to insert herself into any plans they happened to have. She was only there until she and Draco could find a way home. She couldn’t screw up the timeline. Sure, she could just kill Riddle when his back was turned; but that could prevent her from being born somehow. It was selfish, yes, but she also knew better than to meddle in things larger than her, especially those pertaining to Father Time. 

The weekend went quickly. Hermione met more of her housemates, decided she liked Elizabeth and Allison well enough; they were no Ron and Harry, but she supposed any stand-ins for the boys would be lacking. She’d taken a walk around the grounds, learned of Ogg, the groundskeeper; a strange man but nice enough. -Though he never really spoke. 

It’d been surreal when she walked into her first class on Monday. Hermione almost tripped when she’d walked into Transfigurations class; Albus Dumbledore at the front of the room, a young Minerva McGonagall with a quill between her teeth as she dug through her bag. It took Draco actually biting her heel to keep her from stopping dead in her tracks to stare. 

She’d teased him relentlessly for that.

The rest of the day, she’d been better about not reacting to seeing younger versions of people she knew well; like Flitwick. He was a quick-witted Ravenclaw with an attitude. Hermione had been able to act like she’d never seen him before in her life, like he was just another teenage boy. 

She supposed she didn’t know them anyway, what with them not being adults and all that. 

Tuesday morning started out the same as the others. It wasn’t until lunch that her day was thrown off, in a way. 

“A sparrow’s a sparrow and a robin’s a robin. They’re different for a reason.” Rodolphus sneered, shredding a dinner roll for his soup. “Weren’t made to mix.” 

Cygnus rolled his eyes. “You know Lestrange, normal people don’t speak in riddles.” he narrowed his eyes. “It’d save the lot of us a headache if you spoke like a normal bloke you know.” 

“You’re speaking in rhymes, should I chastise you for that?” Asked Rodolphus, waving his spoon around. “If anyone couldn’t figure what I was saying, I'd say they don’t deserve my company.” the spoon was brandished as a weapon, leveled at Cygnus. “You know Dumbledore doesn’t like us to speak of Grindlewald’s movement, I say it’s a brilliant way of keeping from being caught.” 

Abraxas scoffed. “Oh yeah, because we care about what _Dumbledore_ thinks of us.”

“All I’m saying is that we have a separate world for a reason, mixing is-”

“Do shut up Lestrange, you speak as though you can afford to be picky” Elizabeth Nott interrupted. “It’s best you prepare for a lifetime of solitude with the way things are going for you these days.” 

“Marry me then.” 

Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair, an ear tilted towards the boy. “What was that?” she laughed. “Because it sounded as if you just proposed.”

Rodolphus shrugged. “I don’t see any suitors lining up at your door, I say we’re in the same boat. We can save ourselves the trouble.” he stirred his soup. “Unless, of course you’re not telling us something?” he smiled sweetly. “I’ve known you all these years and have yet to see you even _look_ at a man.” 

Allison shook her head, coming to Elizabeth’s rescue. “Not all of us flaunt our sexual experiences to everyone in the common room” her eyes narrowed at Cygnus. “Saves us the trouble of having to relive it all once the school gossips get around to hearing about it.” 

“Oh come on, that was one time!” 

Hermione looked between the two, committing their _ex lovers_ status to memory. It could be important somehow. She had no idea what she could possibly use the information for, but Slytherin wasn’t gryffindor. They played dirty. 

Elizabeth poured herself more pumpkin juice and leaned towards Hermione. “It’s all very scandalous, innit?” she wiggled her eyebrows. 

Hermione sipped her coffee and nodded, keeping an eye on the rest of the conversation. She was a plant, a mole. A trojan horse. If she was alone she would have laughed to herself, but she didn’t, because it would make her look crazy- _crazier_ . She doesn’t really remember ever _hearing_ about the mission, but it’s ingrained in her mind. “Uhuh” was all she managed to say to Allison. 

“What say you, Riddle?” Lestrange turned to look at the head boy, who’d been sitting quietly at the end of the table. “Grindelwald's getting more traction in Britain” 

Riddle just blinked, slowly and pointedly-if that was a thing. “This isn’t lunch conversation” 

“You’re no fun at all” Muttered Lestrange, pouting before his eyes turned to Hermione. “You.” 

“Me?” Hermione asked lazily, watching the slytherin, readying herself for a torrent of questions. 

Lestrange nodded. “Durmstrang doesn’t admit mudbloods, you share those ideals?” 

Hermione shrugged, ignoring the itch in her arm; she had no idea why it did that, she blamed it on some psychosomatic response her brain insisted on. “Haven’t met many, seeing as they were barred from entering the premises.” she ignored Riddle’s eyes on her. 

“If they happened to be admitted, how would you feel?” 

_Think like a pureblood, like a slytherin._ “They never would be. Unless you’ve got a list of the mudbloods attending this school, I reckon we won’t know until later.” she sneered, her tone icy. “For someone that hates them so much, you sure bring up muggles a fair amount.” 

Abraxas smirked, elbowing Lestrange. “She’s got a point there ‘Dolphus, got something to tell us?” 

“It’s just conversation, Merlin, didn’t realize that was a crime” 

“Oh sure, like anything’s that simple with you.” Muttered Cygnus, plucking a dinner roll from the middle of the table. “You’re just trying to get a feel for the new girl.” he sent a wink towards Hermione. 

Hermione wanted to remove her eyes with a grapefruit spoon. “Next time, you can skip the exposition and just ask; it’ll save us all some time.” 

“You never gave an answer though, did you?” asked Rodolphus, leaning his elbows on the table. “So what is it?” 

“With all that prose, I forgot what the real question was.” she drawled, almost smiling at the way his face twisted. “Ask again later, I’m off to _anywhere else._ ”

If he said anything in reply, Hermione didn’t hear it; she was too busy not knocking over anyone in the crowd of first years she had to get by in order to exit the great hall. Draco was hot on her heels, as he usually was. No one had questioned her bringing a familiar to class; they’d just assumed it was a Durmstrang thing. Which worked out, because Draco had insisted he leave the dorm room with her; solitary confinement would do him no good, he said. 

The library was mostly the same, albeit missing a few books-purely because they hadn’t been written yet; but Hermione knew the important ones were there. In her own time, she’d marveled at the shape Madam Pince had kept the books in, some even dating back to the 16th century. In 1944, the books were still in terrific shape, though a bit off somehow. 

She knew she was being followed, what with the way Draco kept looking around like he’d heard something, making strange growling noises, but Hermione paid them no mind. If someone decided to murder her in the library, she figured she wouldn’t be that upset; haunting a library couldn’t be all that bad. Or maybe it would be, since she couldn’t _touch_ the books.

A book on aurors caught her eye and she settled into an alcove at the far end of the room, casting a muffilatio before even thinking about reading; she didn’t feel like being branded as the weird girl that spoke to her familiar. It was only the second day of classes, afterall. There was time to create a decent nickname for herself. She didn’t see an escape from 1944 in her immediate future.

As long as her nickname had nothing to do with her apparent talents with divination, she wouldn’t care. As a child, she’d been obsessed with World War Two for some odd reason, thus giving her a sense of what was to be expected in 1944. She could only assume that anything she said about the near future would only give her some kind of reputation with the subject she hated most. It’d been odd when she saw the day’s date and realized it was _Mad Tuesday._ She kept the information about fleeing Nazis and Winston Churchill’s arrival in Scotland and the liberation of Brussels to herself. It would only grant her some kind of seer reputation, which she loathed to even think about. 

It was funny that her hatred for professor Trelawney was still so strong, even though the woman had yet to be born. 

“Would you sit the hell down?” Hermione glared at Draco’s fox form. “You’re acting like a caged animal, pun intended” 

A pair of crystalline eyes glared at her from the floor, telling the witch that she’d definitely pissed him off. No matter, she was there for a reason; his pacing and hissing noises weren’t helping her concentration.

Satisfied Draco was going to at least _try_ to stop being so strange, Hermione skimmed through the table of contents, all the while thinking about Moody and his affinity for communication spells alongside the ones that afforded him to keep up with his absurd amount of paranoia; maybe he had learned some of them from this very book. A chapter titled _Partners in Communication: All You Need to Know - Page 394_ caught her eye, and it didn’t take much else to convince her to flip to that page. 

_‘A work colleague introduced me to a spell aptly named Occurrens Mentium; which roughly translates to meeting of minds. A charm similar to legilimency, though one does not need to be an accomplished legilimens to perform it. Characterized as a spell that lets you share conscious thought with your partner, I have found this increasingly handy in instances where speaking aloud is unwise._

_Just last week, my partner and I were involved in a case pertaining to an illegal operation involving the crossbreeding of boggarts and djinn. The perpetrator had set numerous traps that my partner D.M. had to be made aware of, though I could not communicate with him for fear of being caught by the very man we were investigating._

_The spell itself is very simple, just a ‘to and fro’ movement (illustrated on page 412) while one says the incantation. The second part is rather difficult. I do recommend one being well versed in Occlumency, otherwise your partner may hear you cussing him out for being an insufferable bastard. I made that mistake once and it resulted in a twisted version of the Leg-Locker Curse in front of the whole office. The prat. (tips and tricks on how to keep a civil relationship in the workplace can be found on page 14)._

_Before performing it, know that the spell melds your minds together. I found myself taking on ‘characteristics’ of my partner, but with how useful the spell was, I figured it was a necessary evil. If I stared at myself for too long in the mirror and developed an affinity for green apples, that was my partner’s doing. He, however, has refused to share the effects of the spell on his own person with me. Though I can guess; I’d say he didn’t suddenly wake up and decide to care about the unjust system in which we are enslaved by. It would be nice, but I know that change of heart came from my side of the connection we now share._

_In order to clearly communicate, I recommend practice before the event in which the spell is needed. You can choose to hide what you want with occlusion, and everything else will flow through the connection. It takes time to remember to think clear, exact thoughts, but it can be a learned habit in no time. At first, it was a series of emotions, or vague half-thoughts, but with time, my partner and I managed to learn to control it (Well before the snafu with the djinn boggart disaster, mind you.).’_

Hermione pulled a quill and parchment from her bag, copying down the spell and the motions necessary before summarizing what it did for Draco to read later. ‘To and fro’ wasn’t a great visual, but when Hermione turned to the page containing the diagram, she found that what she had been imagining was exactly what was needed. 

_My Experience in the Ministry of Magic’s Auror Division and the Things I Learned by J. Ranger_ proved to be an interesting read, and Hermione thought about checking the autobiography out, but thought better of it once she saw the line of students at the librarian’s desk, along with the time. She didn’t fancy being late on her second day of classes, that just wasn’t her style. 

She’d be back for the book. 

Care of Magical Creatures was always one of her favorite classes. She blamed it on her dreams of working with the ministry to help reclassify magical beings as sentient or deserving of freedom. Briefly, very briefly, she thought about skipping, heading down to her room and testing out the spell between Draco and herself, but she wasn’t ready to let go of her studious side just yet. 

No. 

It was only the second day of classes, she couldn’t just up and _disappear_ . People would notice, and it was paramount she _not be noticed_. Hermione was to fly under the radar, keep suspicion from falling on her; their lives depended on it. 

“Oh, Miss Granger!” exclaimed professor Silvanus Kettleburn “I wanted to ask if you would be willing to stay behind at the end of class” 

Her brow furrowed. “Something wrong, professor?” 

The man waved his hand about-Hermione had a hard time not staring, what with him having all of his limbs as a young professor. “Oh no, nothing like that” he smiled, trying to set her at ease. “I just wanted to discuss your familiar, it’s been years since I’ve seen a fox choose a witch or wizard” 

“Of course professor, it’d be no problem” 

The man nodded, his smile turning genuine. “May I ask their name?” 

Her body went cold for a moment. No one had asked that yet-does she say Draco? No. Malfoy? No. “his name is Falkor” 

Kettleburn’s eyebrows rose. “An interesting name, might I ask the origin?” 

No way in hell could she say it was from a novel she’d read hundred of times, that it was from a story about a boy and a Luck dragon and a world that bloomed forth from the pages of a novel. No. The truth wouldn’t favor her story because _The NeverEnding Story_ hasn’t been written yet. 

“My father settled on it one day. It’s Norse.” she shrugged. “Seemed to fit” Her father was the one that had explained that _Falkor_ loosely translated to ‘Guardian of the People’. Half truths were better than outright lies; if the information connected somehow, it’d be easier to remember.

Kettleburn nodded, looking behind her at the clock above the door. “Well, I’ll see you after class, I suppose we’ll be starting soon.” 

Hermione sat down at the back of the class, by herself, of course. She supposed she could try to make friends, but the only other seats happened to be with Gryffindors, and she’d already decided to keep her distance. Slytherin house was still her true house’s rival, it wouldn’t bode well for her should someone ask her about her tendency to gravitate to the maroon clad group. 

Draco sat under the table, looking as pissed off as ever, though Hermione was sure that was just how he looked in animagus form. The chair at her left stayed empty through the class, and she wasn’t upset about it. Maybe if things had stayed the same, she would have felt self conscious about not having anyone to sit with, but that was the old Hermione. The one that only worried about exams and Ron’s lack of interest in her. No, she’d fought in a war, she’d evaded the dark lord for months, she’d been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange in a manor worth more than her entire family, she’d killed that same witch in a duel. 

She didn’t care about trivial things. Not anymore.

The lesson was semi-interesting, focusing on Manticores. Hermione had been interested in their sentience, wondering if it was fair they weren’t considered as such, but after coming across old auror files that featured pictures of the carnage, she figured it was for the best that they stay classified as a creature. 

“Can anyone tell me what Manticore venom is used for?” 

She felt her hand twitch, her mind already pushing the words to her lips, but Hermione stayed still, silent. She didn’t need anyone looking at her, wondering why the hell she knew every use for the venom and the creature itself, down to the individual resurrection potions and the spell resistant armor that could be created from their skin. 

The silence seemed to drag on. The class sat quiet, unmoving for fear of being chosen to answer a question they didn’t know the answer to. 

“Yes, Mr. Riddle”

“Poison as we can all assume, but also a powerful healing potion.” 

Kettleburn glowed, happy that someone had been listening. “And how can we collect that venom?” 

“We can’t, sir, the Manticore is impervious to spells and too vicious to get near enough to kill with a weapon.” 

She couldn’t help it, she laughed-quietly, to herself, but the professor and head boy heard, turning to look at her. 

“Something to add, Miss Granger?” asked Kettleburn. His tone wasn’t mean, per say.

Draco glared at her, knowing that answering the question would put her in everyone’s line of sight; bring unwanted attention. “Well sir, you could just shoot it, I suppose.” her true answer was smothered down deep in her chest. Their bellies weren’t as spell resistant, giving them a weakness.

“Shoot it?” 

Oh for fuck’s sake. “Yes sir, the Manticore’s skin repels charms, but outside of that, it’s only a creature.” she wanted to scream when her professor’s face remained blank. “You could poison it with an arrow, or a gun, should you find yourself with one.” 

Kettleburn crossed his arms and tapped his chin in thought. “You’re talking about the muggle invention?” 

Draco looked murderous, as did the rest of the room but for different reasons, most likely; she’d almost forgotten that she was in a room mostly composed of purebloods. “Well yes, sir. They’re quite effective from what I’ve seen.” she ran her hands over her skirt, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. “The muggle war has exposed more than their nature.” She hoped that her hinting at seeing combat would lessen suspicion; it would only make sense that she’d seen parts of the muggle war, it was everywhere, bleeding across the world. And the nature part, well that would help dispel any ideas they had about her sympathizing with muggles. 

The room seemed to relax but Kettleburn wasn’t about to drop the subject. “And you think that a muggle contraption would work on a magical creature?” Not a condescending tone, more curious than anything. 

“I would say a gun is more powerful than the killing curse in the right hands.” It was an honest statement. Hermione feared the killing curse, but guns just as much. She remembered a passing joke between muggleborns saying that a gun in a third year’s hand would bring an end to Voldemort faster than Harry ever could. The idea found her now, a vision of bringing a gun to a duel; the sight of Riddle’s face as he stared between her and the small wound in his chest, hand over it, trying to staunch the blood. The metal would burn in her hands after the shot, and she’d drop it in horror, surely. Hermione blinked away the idea. No, she wouldn’t do that. _Couldn’t_ do that. It would upset the timeline. The ease in which she’d accepted that murder was alright in some cases didn’t bother her much. 

The professor nodded thoughtfully, possibly planning his next quest into the world. Since no one had anything to add, Kettleburn continued on with the lesson, outlining the potions that could be produced with Manticore venom and their properties. 

Hermione stared down at the parchment, writing things for herself rather than the lesson. Riddle’s eyes burned into her with such an intensity she could feel it even though she wasn’t looking at him. She drew up shaky occlumency walls and silently spelled her parchment to hide her writings from anyone other than herself. If the dark lord had his eyes on her because she’d suggested an alternative method to kill a person or thing without the aid of magic, she’d have to stay vigilant. If he was staring at her for another reason-well she didn’t want to think about that. 

He had no reason to be watching her. 

Kettleburn was enthusiastic in his work-an obvious side effect of being raised in Hufflepuff, but Hermione would have enjoyed the content even if Snape had been presenting it with his monotone drawl. There were other questions thrown at the class, but they were simple with even simpler answers, probably to keep people paying attention. 

The students slowly filed out of the room, chattering amongst themselves but Hermione sat silent, hiding her parchment in a textbook while she waited for the room to empty. She ignored the look she received from Riddle, the way his eyes lingered on her and Draco’s fox form. It was good her mind was fortified with occlumency or else she might have shuddered at the sight. 

“Ah, Miss Granger,” Kettleburn smiled, waving her to join him in his attached office. “Have a seat” 

She sat. 

Draco glared, his eyes darting between her and the professor. 

The conversation was easy enough, just questions about ‘Falkor’ and the way he interacted with her and others, the ease in which he followed her and inane questions about his nature. It devolved into a discussion about nature vs nurture and Kettleburn was none the wiser to Hermione’s blatant lies; because no, she didn’t actually have a fox as a familiar, but an ornery lump of a cat named Crookshanks.

A knock at the office door sounded and Kettleburn’s eyes went to something behind Hermione’s head. “Mister Riddle, how can I help you today?” 

Hermione froze in her chair, if only for a moment before turning in her seat to look at the man. 

“If you’ll excuse the intrusion, Professor Slughorn has requested Miss Granger to stop by his office as soon as possible” 

Kettleburn looked at his watch and nodded. “Oh! I do think that’s enough time I’ve taken up, you’re free to go Miss Granger.” 

“Thank you Professor” she shook his hand and gathered her things, steeling herself before turning to walk down to the dungeons where the potions classroom was. 

Riddle had his hands clasped behind his back, looking much too proper. “I can escort you” 

She would have said something snarky like ‘I know the way, thanks’ but with Kettleburn standing six feet away, she couldn’t. “Alright” was all she said. It was not alright.

Draco trailed behind them, the hallways empty enough that he could keep his distance without fear of being trampled. Hermione pretended not to notice the limp he developed whenever Riddle was near-his dark mark affected him more than he’d let on. 

“Your idea in class- with the Manticore-it was rather unorthodox, wasn’t it?” 

Hermione nearly tripped down the stairs. God, anything but this. Not a conversation with the dark lord. “It was just an idea.” she muttered. 

They fell into silence once more and Hermione wanted to scream. 

“Where did you say you lived?” 

Another attempt at conversation. 

“I didn’t” 

The silence in the corridor was eerie, reminding her of the war. The entire castle had been silent before the wards were destroyed and it was then she’d realized that the castle had never truly been quiet until then. It was just as silent now, and she wanted to scream and break things to fill the emptiness. 

Peeves burst through the wall and hovered in front of them just then, and Hermione almost sighed in relief at the poltergeist. 

“Ah, Riddle’s finally got himself a girl, how _curious_ ” he sneered, twirling around them. “Oh, wait- _oh how interesting!_ ” the ghost laughed. “Hermione! Ah yes I remember you!” 

Hermione’s face paled, but she stayed silent. She knew how to handle Peeves. 

Peeves ran a hand over the wall and it rumbled. “Tell me, why did you do that to poor Trixie?” 

The idea that Peeves _knew_ startled her. But it did make sense that the afterlife was skewed, time was relative, maybe even happening all at once. In theory, ghosts could perceive it all at the same time. _In theory_. 

“You know me Peeves, trouble is my forte.” she replied, continuing to walk. “Hope she’s treating you well.” 

Riddle looked at her strangely but said nothing. 

“Her humor is insufferable.” Peeves floated up to the ceiling and back, darting through the air. 

“Tell her I hope she burns in hell, eh?” Hermione smiled at the ghost. “It’s only fair” 

“You’re no fun you know.”

Hermione sent a silent spell towards the apparition without drawing her wand, throwing him through the granite wall. Peeves burst back through a few moments later, arms crossed and head tilted. “How very _Slytherin_ of you.” he scoffed. “I’d expect more of you.” 

“Sorry to disappoint” 

Peeves only shook his head and shot up, disappearing through the ceiling, the chandeliers swinging with the force. 

“He seems fond of you”

Hermione shrugged. “I guess”

The corridors were silent once more. Her mind wandered to the war, to the slicing spell she’d sent towards Fenrir Greyback, the way his blood flowed so easily, so quickly from his wounds. It looked like hot tar in the dark, staining his clothes. The werewolf had smeared it along the walls as he stalked down the courtyard, hunting her. Another slicing spell, more blood, _more blood more blood more blood more blood more blood more blood, tar black under the moon, flayed skin._

“We’re here” 

Hermione blinked, her vision clearing. “I gathered that” 

Riddle stared down at her, his eyes dark-like blood in dim light, but not quite as red as they should be. “You didn’t seem to notice” 

Shaking her head, she pushed open the door to the potions lab and Riddle followed, Draco slithering in just before the door shut. Slughorn sat at the desk at the front of the room, glasses low on his nose as he graded assignments. At the sound of the door closing, he looked up, expression turning grim. 

“Ah, miss Granger.” 

“Professor” she greeted, moving to stand a few feet from his desk. “Is there something wrong?” 

Slughorn pursed his lips. “I’m glad you asked, yes, it seems we have a situation” his eyes went to Riddle, who stood next to the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “I’m not sure how to broach this, but I do think you know why you’re here” 

“I can assure you, I do not” her heart started pounding faster, but she occluded, calming herself. “Care to enlighten me?” It was bold but she didn’t care. 

“Well it’s come to my attention that you’ve found a way to cheat on the pop quiz assigned on the first day of class” 

She blinked, holding back a scoff. “I assure you professor, I did no such thing” 

“No student has ever scored above an eighty percent on this quiz, Miss Granger, and you’ve somehow managed to garner a perfect score.”

The room felt larger all of a sudden. “You think I cheated because I scored perfectly on a pop quiz?” 

“This quiz was only to ascertain an idea of the class’s skills, it’s not meant to be passed” Slughorn’s expression was grave, much too serious. 

Hermione wanted to laugh. “Had it occurred to you that the curriculum at Durmstrang was farther along than the curriculum here?” it was brazen, but he had no proof that she’d cheated, and she _hadn’t._ Maybe if the old bat updated his assignments every year, she wouldn’t have recognized the questions from the time she’d taken the quiz the _first_ time. Fifty years and he hadn’t changed a thing. 

“If you’d be so kind as to prove it?” Slughorn asked, still wary of her. “I believe that would give us both some peace”

“Of course, professor” she grit out, biting back the retorts that would earn her detention. “What do you suggest?” 

Slughorn looked taken aback, like he expected her to fold, to own up to cheating on a fucking pop quiz. _It was a pop quiz, for fuck’s sake, since when did those actually matter?_ Ron had failed hundreds-yet he still managed to scrape by. Hermione wanted to scream once more. 

“I’ll write one up” 

Slughorn disappeared into his attached office- _Snape’s office_ -and Hermione was left alone with Riddle once more-there was Draco, yes, but he couldn’t exactly show himself as anything other than an animal. Dropping into a desk with an annoyed sigh, she stared straight ahead. 

“You could save yourself the trouble and just own up to cheating” came Riddle’s bored drawl. A few seconds later, he rounded the room and stood aside the podium Slughorn taught behind, examining his fingernails.

Hermione glared at him, at his hands. _Blood, tar black in the moonlight, flayed skin, a werewolf charging at her._ Her mind swarmed with visions of what he’d caused, intent on reminding her how dangerous he was, but the boy standing in front of her wasn’t _that._ Not yet. Part of her thought it satisfying she’d killed more than he had at this point in her life. _Red light, a woman crumpled to her knees, rotten teeth open to the air as she screamed. Flayed skin, blood tar black._

“Here we are Miss Granger” Slughorn appeared, drawing Hermione from her daydreams. “Do you have time to finish it now?” 

“Of course, professor” she smiled, though it wasn’t real. She’d never liked the man, even in her own time. “Can I use my own quill or would you rather I borrow one to prove it’s not spelled?” 

“Er, I’ll get you one” 

The professor disappeared once more and she caught Riddle staring at her. _Blood, blood, blood. Skin free from muscle, bright white and translucent._ She blinked and saw something change in Riddle’s eyes, but she occluded before she could let any kind of emotion show.

“You have twenty minutes” Slughorn reentered the room brandishing a self inking quill. 

It took her fifteen, only because she checked her work, intent on proving a point. She’d learned more from Snape in one year than she ever had with Slughorn, thus giving her an edge. Sure, the portly professor was a decent potions master, but Snape was exceptional. After learning of Snape’s double agency, she’d developed an odd respect for the man, and she’d always been thankful for how much he pushed his students to succeed, as unorthodox as he was at times. If he wasn’t such a dick, she might not have tried so hard in his class to spite him. 

“Ah, thank you Miss Granger” Said Slughorn, accepting the parchment. “You’re free to go.” 

“I’d rather stay while you grade it, if you don’t mind. I’d hate to have this kind of misunderstanding again down the road.” Brazen, but she was annoyed and wanted this over and done with. 

“Alright” Slughorn agreed, albeit reluctantly as he picked up a quill prepared with red ink. 

She stood next to the desk, arms crossed as she waited. Her eyes went to the cabinets, half expecting to see Snape’s elegant scrawl on the jars, as they’d stayed that way long after Snape started teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. Instead of the spidery handwriting, it was Slughorn’s blocky script. 

“I’m sorely sorry for the mixup, I didn’t expect you to be so well versed with advanced potion making.” Slughorn stated, almost gushing. The one eighty almost made her nauseous. “You’re an exceptional student. I do hope we can get past this unfortunate mishap.” a perfect customer service tone. 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again” Hermione said in a false cheer, wishing she could spit the words like venom. “I’d hate to waste our time like this in the future.” 

“You’re free to go Miss Granger, I am truly sorry” 

With a nod, she collected her things and left, Draco trailing behind. “Fucking ridiculous” she muttered under her breath, knowing only Draco would hear. 

“Miss Granger, wait-”

With a deep sigh, she stopped and waited for Riddle to catch up. “Was there something else Riddle?” she asked, looking up at him. “Perhaps we stop by Dumbledore’s office next? See if I’ve cheated on the latest assignment?” she knew it was he who brought the spotlight to her work, Slughorn wouldn’t have bothered to question it, she knew what kind of instructor he was. The man was lazy. 

“Tom. I apologize it happened.” 

“I’m not a fan of having to prove my place in the world, Riddle” She used his last name just to spite him, knowing she shouldn’t try to rile him. “Best you just keep out of my business from now on.” not trusting herself to keep from saying the other things on her mind, she walked past him, intent on locking herself in her room until dinner. Usually, she’d hole up in the library, but it wasn’t safe, not with the future dark lord tailing her. Draco padded next to her, face forward but his ears turned back, in anger or to listen to Riddle’s movements, she didn’t know. Didn’t care. 

They reached the wall that opened to slytherin and she almost growled in frustration because she’d forgotten to learn the password _again. “Open”_ was whispered in parseltongue once more and the pair walked inside, ignoring the stares she received, Hermione went straight to her room. Draco would tear her a new one if she forced him to lounge in the common room in animagi form. She needed to make friends, but she also needed to preserve her relationship with her only ally. 

“That was bad” Hermione muttered, collapsing face down into her bed. 

“Really? I forgot to notice.” Came Draco’s reply. She heard him sit down in the desk chair, the wood floor creaking under him. “Pray tell, where did Falkor come from?” 

The room fell into silence for a stretch and Draco got the hint that the witch wasn’t going to just fall into conversation with him, not so soon after such a trial. Hermione Granger had earned her place in the world but now she had to do it all over again. She knew that they would come up against _issues_ such as these, but she’d never thought them to happen so soon, on the second day of school. 

“It’s from a muggle novel about a magical kingdom within a book, Falkor is a Luck Dragon that _helps,_ I suppose. It’s not like I could chance calling you something close enough to your surname, and I’m assuming Draco is too much of a family name for Abraxas to ignore. Never occurred to me that someone would ever ask such a thing.” came the muffled reply after several long bouts of silence.

Draco made an indignant noise. “Oh yes, because a _muggle novel_ is so much better. If they find out the origin?” 

The witch sat up, moving to tie her hair up in a knot on top of her head; she knew just how much the hairstyle bothered the wizard. He’d said that it was improper for a pureblood, that she had to play the role she’d taken on. “It’s Norse, and the book hasn’t been written yet. I don’t need you second guessing my decisions.” 

“You aren’t going to be happy for the next part of this conversation, then.”

Hermione glared at him, curls already escaping the rat’s nest of a bun she’d wrangled her hair into. “Let me guess, you don’t agree with my lack of meekness when it comes to dealing with our _target_?” 

“Seems you know enough to keep us afloat, but not as much as I.” Muttered the blond, stretching out his legs, jaw twitching when his joints cracked like they always did after the animagus spell. “You’re catching his attention, Granger. That’s not a good thing.” 

“It is if we pretend we don’t notice him watching. Frankly, Malfoy, I expected a bit more respect when it came to this.” her face was grim. “You act as though I’m incapable of deceit.” 

“He’s not _people_. He’s the dark lord.” 

“He’s still a teenage boy. Albeit one that’s basically ruled the castle with his chicanery, but he’s never caught suspicion aside from Dumbledore’s. He thinks that no one will ever catch on to him. We have to play our cards close, but I’ll be fine.” she muttered, the plan already concrete in her mind, though she hadn’t really known _when_ it had been put there. 

Draco shook his head and picked up the muggle book he’d stolen from her charmed purse, _To Kill a Mockingbird_ . He busied himself with _staying_ busy, if only to avoid starting arguments with the witch, who was deceptively good at turning his words around to fit her own agenda. She’d laughed at him when he asked why she had a book that detailed how to kill a mere songbird, but all she’d said was ‘symbolism, young one, much to learn’ in that odd cryptic tone she took on when it came to explaining muggle things. He was sure it was part of some reference he didn’t care to understand, but the things she said sometimes made him wonder for her sanity. 

“I did find this-before I was run out of the library.” she held out the parchment with the notes she’d taken, her mind half made up to go back and get the Auror’s memoir. Riddle would probably be busy with something other than staking out her room.

Slate grey eyes scanned the information before Draco raised an eyebrow at her. “You want _inside my head_?” 

“What? Scared?” she teased, allowing the wizard a glimpse into the strange persona she put on for the other slytherins.

Draco read through the pages. “Should be. I’d need to read it before we did it. Make sure you didn’t put all your hope into the first thing you found.” he glanced up at her. “Don’t you think it odd we’re getting along?” 

The witch fell silent once more, but sat up. “Now that you mention it, it doesn’t make sense how familiar we are with each other.” 

“Do you remember actually _sending_ that owl to Dippet about attending?”

“No, I just know we forged it.” she stood up, staring at a place on the wall before pacing across the room. “How did we even _get_ here? It’s all too clean, there are too many coincidences.” 

Draco stared at the ceiling a moment before dropping his gaze to the witch. “Why do I suddenly know things about you that I normally wouldn't?” 

“Like what?” 

“You prefer coffee over tea, have an odd obsession with action movies-terrible ones, and hate zoos.” he stated. “When would I learn any of that?” 

Hermione countered after a moment of thinking. “You hate the air pollution in London, read Shakespeare because you think he was a squib, and believe the moon landing was faked.” 

They sat in silence for a long time, staring at each other. 

“The moon landing _was_ faked.” 

Hermione stared at him, her expression contorting into one of annoyance. “No it wasn’t!”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, if any are noticed, please let me know.  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> [Chapter word count: 7,300]


	4. Homey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The hell is a kink, Granger?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter word count: 7,500]

* * *

_9/6/44 _

_Diary,_

_She humiliated me in front of Slughorn. I was_ _sure_ _she cheated to best me, but if she truly is on my academic level, she may be an asset in the future._

 _That wretched animal is_ _always_ _with her, I cannot understand why. No one else in this castle allows their Familiar to accompany them around the castle. I could bring the issue to Dippet. He might ban the animal’s admittance to classes if I bring up the argument that it could be a health hazard. Foxes are dirty, rabid animals that carry fleas. Other students could have allergies. It would be a service to the school,_ _not that that is my reasoning for doing so._ _I just want to get even with the witch, annoy her as she has annoyed me. The humiliation of being wrong after bringing Slughorn’s attention to her test scores has irked me._

 _Asset or not, I_ _will not_ _stand for such a thing._

 _Peeves added insight to the witch that I cannot understand._ _Who is this Trixie?_ _I can only assume she is dead from the banter the pair took part in. Why does a Hogwarts ghost seem to know a witch from Durmstrang? It makes no sense, no sense at all. I will have to continue watching her._

 _That twit Dumbledore is watching me now more than ever, I will have to stay vigilant to avoid being found out. Not that the prick could ever put the pieces together._ _I was his favorite once._ _I may be able to renew that trust if the need arise. He underestimates how convincing I can be._

_Tomorrow is meatloaf day. If the elves have changed this week’s menu I’ll be sure to make them regret it. It’s the only thing I look forward to these days._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/8/44 _

_Diary,_

_I’ve assigned Black to watch the witch. He’s taken a liking to her for some reason and I might as well allow him to try; Salazar knows_ _I_ _could never get her to drop her guard. Rosier is the failsafe in this operation and has been assigned to the same feat. He’s been instructed not to speak to the witch-only to watch. I worry he’d get the wrong idea if I let him do anything else._

 _The violence I have seen inside her mind thrills me in ways nothing else ever has. There’s a darkness about her that confuses me yet threatens to lure me in. Blood and dark curses flash through her mind whenever she looks at me and I cannot discern whether or not_ _I_ _have caused such a reaction. If I do, I wonder what her reasoning is._

_As intrigued as I am by her, I will be meeting with Dippet to make good on my plan to spite her next week._

_The elves made good on their promise of meatloaf. Before I leave this hellhole of a school, I’ll have to get the recipe. I would ask one of the underlings to do it but they do not deserve access to such a delicacy._

_T.R._

* * *

**_Saturday, September 9th, 1944_ **

Hogsmeade was crowded enough that Draco stood as a man and not a fox. If anyone noticed Hermione’s new _friend_ they didn’t ask. She’d developed a reputation around school as the sharp tongued witch with no regard for anyone else’s feelings. When he asked her where the sudden persona came from, she simply smiled and said _‘Draco Malfoy’._

She didn’t talk very often, not to the other Slytherins, not to her professors, not to the students she shared classes with. It was only when the room of their dorm was locked with half a dozen spells and charms that she started talking, muttering, almost yelling; Draco put up with it because he thought it funny how quickly she switched hats. 

“Want anything?” she asked, a handful of sugar quills in her grasp, eyebrows raised. 

Draco shook his head, patted his pocket with a look. They were a good team when it came to raiding the small village for supplies. A disillusionment here, a distracting conversation there. Money wasn’t an issue when you turned to thievery and debauchery. They’d gone from shop to shop, taking the things they needed. Hermione’s beaded purse was a godsend when combined with a sleight of hand. 

They walked up to the counter. The cashier was barely older than them, her hair cascading over her shoulders in tight blonde ringlets. Hermione almost laughed when she saw the girl’s eyes roam over Draco at her side. He shifted under the girl’s gaze, uneasy. 

“Find everything?” the blonde chirped, looking at Draco. 

Hermione set down the sugar quills and single chocolate frog. “We did, thanks” 

“Are you new this year? I couldn’t help but notice that I hadn’t seen you before.” her eyebrow raised as she punched numbers on the till. “I graduated last year, I should know you two. Couldn’t help but notice the robes.” her eyes darted to Hermione for only a moment before settling back on Draco, who wore plain black robes. 

“Visiting her” Draco nodded at Hermione, his drawl unaffected by the uneasiness he’d shown earlier. It was weak cover but seemed to get the job done. Acting as mysterious strangers wouldn’t work with this particular witch. “The muggle war has us stuck here.” a useless detail on both ends.

“I’m sorry to hear that” there was real compassion there, but she was wasting it. “Oh, and it’ll be twelve knuts”

Hermione slid the coins over, pocketed her wares. “Thanks so much.” Her tone was so sweet it was sick. 

They walked outside, the September sun beating down on them. The fair weather was nice, but conflicted with both of their moods. Hermione was only ever happy when she was locked in the safety of her dorm room, away from everyone-except Draco, but he was unavoidable. Draco was on edge, unused to people _seeing_ him. In the past week, no one but Granger had truly noticed him, everyone else saw him as a Familiar, a fox. 

He found he liked anonymity. Preferred it. 

“Did we get everything?” 

“Think so.” 

“Should we eat at the three broomsticks? Most everyone’s gone back to the castle.” She felt terribly for Draco. His existence was a secret inside the castle walls; no one could see or talk to him aside from Hermione unless they wanted to show their hand. She supposed he wanted to walk around as a man as much as he could before hiding himself once more. 

The only answer she received was a half shrug, which she took as a yes. 

They went to the pub next, pickpocketing an older wizard with silver embroidered robes before pulling the door open. Hermione wanted to smile at the coins weighing down her pockets. She didn’t feel bad, per say. Things in her life were bound to be more difficult than the middle aged man with robes more expensive than her entire wardrobe. He was doing them a service in being such an easy target, it was almost as if he’d _handed_ the galleons to them. 

There was no Madam Rosmerta behind the counter. The tables were a plain wood, the air thick with smoke. It was the same and not. Draco walked to the booth in the corner, wanting to stay out of sight. It unnerved him when people looked at him and saw him for what he was. A man. He wasn’t used to it, not anymore. It’d only been a week but it was long enough.

“Just two for today?” asked the barmaid, her face grizzled and aged.

“Yes ma’am, two butterbeers and steaks-medium if you would.”

“Make one rare.” Draco corrected, ignoring the look from Hermione.

The woman nodded and disappeared to the bar. Draco looked around the room, trying to see if he recognized anyone from the school amongst the patrons. Most wore travel cloaks or robes that showed them to be too old to be students. They knew better than to talk where they could be overheard, so they waited for their food in silence. It didn’t last long.

“Here you are,” said the woman, floating over the plates, landing them next to the mugs. “You two enjoy now, I’ll bring your bill over later.”

Hermione pulled a handful of galleons from the stolen coin purse and handed them over. “I’ll save you some time, dinner rush and all.” 

“Oh thank you!” said the woman, pocketing the money, her tone odd somehow. “I’ll get your change-” 

“Keep it.” Draco waved a hand dismissively, already moving to dig into his food. 

The woman only nodded and went back to the bar, a strange look on her face. “I think I forgot about inflation.” Hermione mused, watching the woman at the till, a small smile on her face. 

“Don’t have to worry about it when you steal from the rich.” 

“I guess.” 

The meal passed in silence, and Draco kept an eye on the other patrons. Hermione’s eyes went to the door every time the bell sounded. They were both paranoid; jumpy, and intent on staying under the radar. The habits worked in their favor, seeing as they couldn’t tack on a conscious effort to be vigilant on top of everything else. Mistakes would be made if they were thinking too much. 

It seemed like the universe was going to grant them a quiet evening since things had yet to go wrong. No one paid any extra attention to Draco, and no one bat an eye when Hermione’s hands nicked things from shelves and pockets. Things were going well. 

That sentiment flew out the window when Tom fucking Riddle waltzed through the door, Rodolphus and Abraxas on his heels. 

“Well, shit” Hermione muttered, casting a quick disillusionment charm on the table. “What the hell are they doing here? It’s late. Everyone’s supposed to be back to the castle soon.” 

Draco didn’t say anything right away; too busy with the steak, cutting it into tiny pieces. “I think we both know Riddle does as he pleases.” 

Rodolphus looked around the room, staring right past Hermione and Draco, proving the disillusionment was working. He looked anxious, on edge like the pair of outsiders. Abraxas was calm as ever, looking around the room with a bored expression. Riddle was-well he was Riddle. Hermione’s heart stopped when he stared a little too long at their hidden table. He could probably sense something was off. 

“We’re fucked. _Fucked.”_ Hermione muttered, watching the three of them cross the room and settle into the booth right next to theirs. “Can’t the universe cut us a break?” she whined after a weak _muffilatio_ was cast around them.

Draco stabbed a piece of steak with enough force to split the plate. “Apparently not.” Hermione watched him eat, even with the animalistic habits he’d picked up, he still acted much too _proper_. “Had to ruin the first hot meal I’ve had that wasn’t from a box in I don’t know how long.” his tone was spiteful, angry and quiet. 

Hermione found he scared her when he was like this. Men that stayed quiet in anger were always the ones you had to watch out for. Ron was loud and had trouble controlling his temper, but Malfoy was different, he was terrifying. It wasn’t so much _what_ he said, but _how_ he said it. The way he was always coiled like a snake about to strike set off alarms in her mind- screaming at her to _get away_. 

“It’s not quite ruined, they haven’t _seen_ us.” 

“Only a matter of time.”

Silently, they finished their meals. Without a word, they decided it was best that they pretend they had done nothing wrong, act as if they had a right to be there-and they did, but acting like it and _knowing_ it were two different things.

Hermione left first, knowing the disillusionment wouldn’t last long after she left the table. Walking through a crowded restaurant while partially invisible wouldn’t do them any good; a hidden force weaving through a crowd would draw more attention than a mere schoolgirl trying to take her leave. 

She was one, two, three steps away from the booth when she heard it. 

_“Hermione?”_

The witch slowly turned around, plastering a polite smile across her features. “Abraxas.” her eyes went to the other two boys, but found their way back to the blond Malfoy. “Hello” 

“I didn’t see you when we came in-where’d you come from?” he sounded curious, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d have ignored the odd look in his eyes before it was replaced with friendly curiosity. She knew better. 

“Had to use the loo before I went back to the castle.” _It’s unladylike to talk of such things._

Riddle had stayed quiet, much too quiet for how intense he was. It was unnerving, the way his eyes bored into her, blank of emotion. “It’s unbecoming of a lady to travel alone” 

She sneered, biting back more than a few curse words-the muggle kind that had four letters. _Fucking chivalry._ “Last I checked, I’m perfectly capable of walking myself.”

“Oh but it’s getting late, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you” Riddle’s voice was velvet but held a threat. “We’re almost finished here, I can accompany you back.” 

Draco chose that moment to slip out of the booth, stopping aside Hermione. “Are you ready to go?” he asked, completely ignoring the table. 

“Yes, thanks.” she didn’t think much about what she was doing before she grasped his elbow like she was some frail girl in those shitty damsel in distress movies. “These are my housemates from school.” She took comfort in his proximity. This was dangerous and they both knew it. 

Rodolphus stared between Draco and Abraxas. “Are you two related somehow?” the dark haired boy received a glare from Riddle before remembering himself. “Sorry-I’m Rodolphus Lestrange” 

“Draco Snape” he took the outstretched hand and shook it, his demeanor cold. “Can’t say we are.” he nodded at Abraxas. Draco’s jaw ticked after mentioning the half-truth, like he was hiding a smirk. 

“Abraxas Malfoy” they shook hands once more, and Hermione noted that Riddle was glaring at her hand where it rested on Draco’s arm. “Pleasure-forgive me, but are you sure? I’ve some distant family I’m not even aware of.”

Hermione thanked whatever powers that be for the absence of Cygnus Black. Draco favored his mother’s side of the family outside of the blond hair and light eyes. The resemblance had been uncanny and more than off putting when she’d noticed Cygnus was a dark haired version of the Malfoy she knew.

“I suppose it could be possible.” Draco replied in that calm tone he always seemed to favor. 

“I wasn’t aware you knew anyone outside the castle, Hermione.” Said Abraxas, apparently over the strange change in conversation. “Holding out on us?”

Riddle spoke up, and Hermione grit her teeth. “I’m sure she has plenty of secrets” the boy reached across the table to shake hands with Draco. “Tom Riddle” 

Hermione felt Draco’s arm stiffen under her touch as they shook hands, and briefly wondered if the mark was reacting differently than usual. “We should get going then.” He met Hermione’s eyes, his expression cold. 

“Only students are allowed past the wards” Said Riddle, and Hermione wanted to snap his neck. “I’ll extend the invitation once more to accompany you back to the grounds.” 

“I think she’s perfectly capable of walking herself,” Smirked Draco. “As she’s said before” 

Riddle’s eyes flashed with something but he nodded. “Maybe we’ll run into each other later, then.” 

“For your sake, I hope not” Hermione replied in a tone much too sweet for how sour she felt. In another brazen act, she joined hands with Draco, schooling her face into a coy smile. “Shall we?” 

Draco’s eyes were a storm of grey as he nodded, sending an odd look towards Riddle and the others. Hermione hadn’t truly noticed before, since they had never been this close to each other, but Draco had grown taller, much taller. The top of her head was below his shoulder. His hair was grown out, falling into his eyes because he no longer slicked it back-but he hadn’t since they were young. His shoulders were broad, a contrast to the slim seeker build he’d had in their childhood. _When did that happen?_

Weaving through the tables and patrons of the pub, people moved out of Draco’s way because he was hard to miss-eyes were drawn to him either due to his height or his beauty, which Hermione wasn’t loath to admit. Somehow, Draco had grown into his pointed features and became a man that demanded a sort of respect. Hermione trailed behind him, happy that she could skip the whole ‘excuse me, let me past you’ routine every thirty seconds. She didn’t let go of his hand, drawing comfort from his grip. Stranger things had happened.

Outside, the sun had sunk low in the horizon, painting the sky a pale yellow, dotting neon pink clouds across the expanse. “That’s going to draw attention.” he said without looking at her.

Hermione smirked. “Isn’t that the plan?”

“He knows about me now Granger, how is that in any way _good?”_

“You’re the one that came up to me.” She held up their hands, still entwined. “At any rate, he’ll be looking for you in all the wrong places.” they started walking and untangled their hands. “You’re right under his nose, but he’ll only expect you in Hogsmeade.” 

“I think I know why you were put in Gryffindor.” 

“Care to share with the class?” she pulled a sugar quill from her pocket and stuck it in her mouth, knowing damn well it wasn’t ladylike to walk around with it between her teeth like some wannabe John Wayne cowboy.

“You’d be too dangerous in Slytherin.” he said it like it pained him. 

"Blasphemy!" She laughed. “Well now we have a cover story if Cygnus keeps it up.” 

Draco stopped walking for a second. “My grandfather asked you on a date?” 

“No! He’s just acting odd- you know, too nice...” Hermione shrugged. “If word gets out that I have some mysterious wizard lurking around Hogsmeade, any advances should stop.” 

Draco shook his head, expression twisted. 

“Oh come off it!” she laughed, a genuine smile across her face. “It’s never gonna happen.” 

“Okay, _grandmother.”_

She spun on her heel to glare at him, finding she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes when they were so close. “I’m not one to kinkshame, but I’ll make an exception for _that.”_ A distant part of her brain told her that this was going into dangerous territory-borderline flirting. 

“Kink shame?” he repeated, looking down at her, a small smile on his lips-a contrast to the dour expression he usually got when she said something he didn’t understand. 

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut and she opted to stare ahead as they walked, noticing that Hogsmeade had faded into the forest. Trees were surrounding them, the rustling of leaves the only sound aside from their footsteps in the gravel. “What? Wizards don’t have kinks?” 

“The hell is a _kink_ , Granger?” 

The situation hit her in full force and she started laughing, a light sound that forced its way out of her throat. “You’re-you’re kidding me, right?” she looked at him, glad that they were a few feet apart now. “You don’t know what a kink is?” 

“What are you laughing about?” 

Hermione burst into true hysterics, fighting to keep from doubling over. Her sides ached and the look on her companion’s face wasn’t helping to school herself. Any effort she made to explain was shut down by her laughter.

Draco stared down at her, a strange look on his face. “Is this some weird _muggle_ thing?” 

Finding enough strength to keep from laughing again, she straightened up, fixing him with a look. “It’s what a person likes in the bedroom- that’s what a kink is” she snorted. “It’s what muggles call it.” she wanted to laugh once more after realizing she was talking about _kinks_ in the middle of 1944 with _Draco Malfoy_. She forced herself to act professional, like this was an academic conversation. If she acted any other way, she might start laughing again.

“And what? People like to be called grandma in bed?” he asked, still looking at her oddly. “That’s rank, even by your precious muggle standards.” 

“Well Mommy and Daddy are the more popular terms of taboo endearment if I’m being honest.” 

His face twisted. “Muggles are odd, Granger, I don’t know how you haven’t accepted that.” 

“You chase a little gold ball around on a broom for hours. That’s weird in any conversation.” she stated. “Besides, I can see Riddle having enough issues to call someone mommy-I’m sure it extends beyond muggles.” 

He still looked lost. “I worry you’ve gone insane.”

“We’re stuck in 1944 and you think this conversation is the strangest thing to happen?” she scoffed, waved her hand dismissively. “I worry about your priorities.”

Before he could speak-and it looked like he was planning to, Draco looked back the way they’d come. Voices carried towards them and Draco’s demeanour changed; like a predator ready to attack. “Riddle is close.”

The gravel path was only a few meters away, but the trees would provide them enough cover to stay hidden. Hermione knew Draco could just revert to his animagus form so they could join the future death eaters on the walk back to the castle, but she didn’t want him to just yet. They were having a decent time outside of the castle and neither wanted it to end. This was the only time Draco could walk as himself out in the world until the next trip to Hogsmeade. She didn’t want it to be over, this was her only escape from the lies she’d woven. Draco would do well to keep from being cooped up in an unnatural form for as long as possible.

“I’ll just-”

Hermione grabbed his wrist, staring at him. “No, let them pass, they’ll insist on escorting me and I don’t want to deal with them right now.” 

“But you want to deal with _me?”_ he asked, one eyebrow raised. 

“We’re all we have, Malfoy.” she muttered, pulling him farther into the forest. “Besides, you don’t treat me like an invalid. That’s enough at this point.” 

“The proverbial bar is on the ground, Granger.” 

“If you want me to start listing other reasons, you’re going to be disappointed.” She muttered, peeking around a tree to glare at Riddle and his posse. She would rather die than try to find the words for why she had some kind of sudden epiphany about Draco. She didn’t understand her own change of heart. “I know the mark reacts to him-which is painful if your face is anything to go by. I think it best we stay away.” she didn’t have to look at him to know she was right. 

“Don’t try to protect me, Granger. It doesn’t turn out well for those that do.” 

Hermione snorted. “By protecting you, I’m protecting myself. Think about it that way.” It was the truth, Draco was her secret weapon of sorts-no one knew she had backup with her in the castle. “If Riddle’s face was anything to go by, he’s curious. I’d rather not have that conversation with him right now.” 

“Why have they stopped?” 

Hermione shook her head and ventured farther into the forest, pulling Draco with her and casting charms she used while on the run with Harry and Ron. “I don’t know, _Riddle’s_ the mind reader.” 

“We’re going to be eaten by something out here” Draco muttered, looking around at the trees. “You don’t have the best track record with venturing into the unknown.”

They fell silent a while, watching Riddle speak to Rodolphus about something, the way their faces twisted. They could hear their voices, but not the words. Hermione almost didn’t realize what Draco had just said.

“How do you know that phrase?” 

“What phrase?” 

“Track record” Hermione turned to look at him. “I thought that was just a muggle thing.” 

Draco stared back, eyes scanning her face. “I don’t know.” his jaw tensed, eyes roving over Hermione before watching Riddle and his group, who had stopped to stare into the forest. “It seemed appropriate. Maybe you said it.”

“I don’t believe I’m rubbing off on you.” Hermione muttered, falling into deep thought as she went back to watching the trio. 

Time travel wasn’t something that messed with your mind, unless you changed something in the past that affected the future. But she figured she wouldn’t _know_ that. None of it made sense. Hermione had never been friendly with Draco Malfoy-hated the boy, but he was different now, and so was she. The way they interacted gave her some semblance of friendship or mutual understanding that wasn’t there before. They knew things about each other that they shouldn’t. 

“What’s the last thing you remember before the sorting ceremony?”

“What do you mean?” 

Hermione turned to look at her companion. “Our own time, what was happening?” 

“The battle of Hogwarts?” his eyes became unfocused as he tried to remember. “Isn’t that what landed us here?” 

“Yes but doesn’t it seem fake?” Hermione asked, remembering the events. “It seems like some distant memory even though it was only a week ago to my understanding.” 

“If we were planted here-” 

“I don’t think it’s that.” Hermione muttered, too busy staring at Draco to realize that Riddle had started talking to his goons and gesturing towards the woods. “I think we’re older than we think we are.” she gestured to him. “You didn’t look like _that_ at the battle of Hogwarts” 

“Like what?” he asked, defensive.

Hermione blinked. “Malfoy, you’re like six four now.” she watched him look down at himself like he’d only just realized. “Do _I_ look different?” 

He stared at her a moment, and Hermione fought to keep still under his gaze. “You were covered in dirt and blood last I remember but no, you don’t look the same. Your hair is longer and-” he stopped, snapping his mouth shut, eyes trained on her face as opposed to the wandering they’d done a few seconds prior. 

_“And_ what?” 

“Yes, you look different.” Draco rushed out.

Ignoring how strange he’d become, Hermione started thinking about things. “How did we get to the sorting ceremony?” 

“No idea” 

“We need to go to the library” Hermione shook her head. “This is some weird dream, I swear. -Talking about _Voldemort_ having a mommy kink.” she muttered it to herself, thinking aloud.

“Well they haven’t moved,” Draco looked past her to the gravel path. “You’re either going to have to wait them out or sneak past” 

The plan to avoid Riddle and his goons went awry. 

“Oi, Hermione! I thought you’d be back already?”

Stopping in her tracks, Hermione plastered a small smile on her face before facing Rodolphus. “I guess I got carried away with the sightseeing.” she was surprised to see that Evan Rosier had joined them somewhere along the line. He was an odd one- never spoke. 

“Sightseeing?” Riddle asked, though the tone in his voice said _‘you really think that’s going to fool us?’_

“Where’d your friend go?” asked Abraxas, saving Hermione from having to come up with _what_ she was looking at on her apparent jaunt through the woods. “The forest isn’t exactly safe to be alone in.”

She was well aware of that.

“I’ve never seen him in Hogsmeade, how d’you know him?”

Hermione shrugged. “I know him from school.” 

“Long way from home.” said Riddle, eyeing Hermione and the fox that stood next to her. They’d cut through the forest and rejoined with the trail. Riddle and his goons walked faster than expected. Hermione had hoped to reach the castle before them. 

“So am I” 

“We’re going to the same place. Walk with us.” 

There was no way to tell him to fuck off without actually saying it, and Hermione knew she was stuck with dealing with them. Abraxas wasn’t that bad, considering, but knowing his loyalties set her on edge. “Alright” she glanced down at Draco, who had transfigured himself into a fox a few minutes prior to Riddle’s reappearance. The Dark Mark came in handy that way. They’d agreed that in order to get back as quickly as possible, they’d have to take the trail and get out of the forbidden forest _lest they be eaten._ Draco’s words, not Hermione’s. 

“So what’s with you and that wizard?” asked Rodolphus. “Drake you said his name was?” 

“Draco,” she corrected, shoving her hands in the pockets of her robes and grasping her wand-she wasn’t going to hex them, but she could; should the need arise. “His name is Draco.” 

“What is he to you?” 

Hermione stared straight ahead as they walked. “We’re still trying to figure that out.” it was the truth-something was off between them and they needed to figure out how and why they’d gone from rivals to _friends_ at the flip of a switch _._ Hermione didn’t care if they thought she was dating Draco. She could do much worse. 

“Snape, that’s an odd name, isn’t it?” asked Rodolphus. “He’s a half blood? Or a mudblood?” he nudged Rosier. “What say you?” 

Rosier didn’t say anything.

“I don’t see why it matters.” She shot them a look. “Though if you used that brain of yours, you’d know that if I went to school with him, he couldn’t be a mudblood.” she wanted to laugh at her defending Draco’s blood status- _how the tables have turned._ “You remember Durmstrang’s stance on them.”

“It was just a question.” Rodolphus smiled. “We could all be friends you know, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a few friendly faces in a strange place.” It was a weak attempt at meddling for a Slytherin. Even Hermione could see that.

“What makes you think he’d want to be friends with you lot?” Hermione bit out, glaring at the boy. “He barely spoke to you.” she raised an eyebrow. “You think you’d have anything in common?” 

Riddle spoke now, his voice low in her ear. “Well it seems the both of you have the same air of dark magic about you.” his proximity made her shiver. “We were curious about that.” 

Hermione knew the other three wizards were in on Riddle’s little fixation so she spoke loud enough for all of them to hear instead of whispering to Riddle. “If you wanted to know more about my use of the dark arts, you could have just asked. No need to beat around the bush with veiled threats and false interest.” She even _sneered._

Rodolphus perked up while Abraxas’s face was wiped of emotion. Rosier acted as if they weren’t even there. “So what is it then? Not many have magical cores tainted as yours.” 

“Prolonged exposure to a cursed object.” Hermione replied. She wasn’t going to explain what, or why, but she did know that that horcrux locket changed her. “It’s not as complex as you’d think.” 

“And your wizard?” 

Hermione glared at Riddle, because Draco’s magical core being tainted was _his_ fault. It was the mark, and while it didn’t warp his mind, it still affected him. It was probably affecting him now if his animagus form’s limping had anything to do with it. “That’s not my story to tell.” 

“So it wasn’t the cursed object?” 

She had no way of saying yes or no without it being a complex lie she couldn’t think up on the spot-Riddle was the reason for the mark _and_ the horcrux, his magic tainted both of them, but in different ways. “I suggest you ask _him.”_

“Would he answer?” Asked Rodolphus, a strange look on his face. 

“He’d probably hex you into tomorrow.” 

Abraxas scoffed. “And what would that achieve?” 

Hermione shrugged, eyes forward. The castle was just visible through the trees. “Self gratification.”

“You think he could take the four of us?” Rodolphus gestured to his companions. “Is he that versed in dueling?”

Hermione’s mind conjured a memory-one she didn’t even know she had-which was a problem to think about later. “It’d be a fair fight.” 

Abraxas stared at her for too long while Riddle’s face warped with curiosity. 

They passed a clearing and Hermione’s mind wandered to Harry. The memory of Hagrid carrying the limp body of her best friend clouded her mind and she felt more anger than sadness. Blood, tar black. Singed wounds, Bellatrix’s face as the light faded from her eyes. Fenrir Greyback’s terror as he fell backwards off a ledge to die. The anger clouded her mind so much that she didn’t realize someone was speaking to her. 

“What?” she refocused her eyes and saw that Riddle was staring at her, a strange look in his eyes. 

“I asked if these episodes happen often”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” 

Riddle put a hand on her elbow to stop her walking and waved his three goons onward. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” 

_Fire, emerald green and red, blood tar black under the moon._

“I don’t. There’s nothing to be concerned about, Riddle” 

“Tom.” he corrected almost instantly. “I know there’s something bothering you.” 

Hermione saw red. He was a legilimens-spying on her mind. “Stay the _fuck_ out of my head.” it was a snarl to rival Lupin’s. “Don’t waste your concern on little old me, I didn’t ask you to worry.” 

“And who does?” he asked, voice level. “Does anyone know about what goes on in your head?” 

Hermione laughed. She laughed-because Tom fucking Riddle was trying to have a heart to heart. “Worry about yourself. If you go in my head again, I won’t be so nice about it.” 

He was looming over her-but Draco was taller than him by a few inches. She thought it funny for some reason. “You’ll find I don’t do well with threats.” 

“It wasn’t a threat, but a promise.” she pushed past him, dredging up occlumency walls once more. They only fell when she was forced to reminisce about violence, which was fine with her. If Riddle felt threatened, maybe it’d keep him away. “I won’t tell you again, stay the fuck away from me. You _and_ your goons.” 

She bypassed Abraxas and Rodolphus, ignoring the looks they gave her. The castle was still a ways off but she wasn’t going there, no she needed peace and quiet- _away_ from Riddle and anyone else that wanted to intrude. She was in no mood to play nice any longer. Her feet moved faster than her mind. 

The whomping willow wasn’t pruned, the boughs long and angrier than they were in her own time. Hermione levitated a small stone and threw it at the soft spot that froze the tree. Draco followed her, knowing better than to start questioning her when she was like this-not that he could say anything without exposing his true self. The passageway was still there-or just _there_ rather, since this was the past. Thinking about correct terms for a time traveler to use just gave her a headache, so she focused on not losing her footing instead of letting her mind wander. But wander it did, and nothing made sense.

“You’re safe to change back. No one knows about that.” she gestured back the way they came. 

The telltale rustling of a cloak sounded just behind her. “Are you completely mad?” 

Hermione spun on her heel to look at him. She didn’t have to crane her neck to meet his gaze; they were the same height here because he was too tall to stand. “Something’s _off,_ have you realized that yet?” she tilted her head, waiting for an answer that didn’t come. “It’s almost like some nightmare.” 

Draco stared at her a moment. “How do you mean?” he gestured back at the entrance. “Because it sounds like you’re just making excuses for what you just did.” he stepped closer, threatening even when he was hunched over. “Do you even _know_ what you’ve done?” his voice was a low growl. “That was his first move of many. You’ve just provoked him.” 

Hermione stepped closer, unafraid. “I don’t think we’re truly _here.”_ She drew her wand and cast lumos to chase the shadows away. “It’s impossible to go back fifty years in the past.” 

“So what are you saying? This is a dream?” Draco scoffed with the words. “That _you_ aren’t real? Or I’m not?” 

Hermione stared at him. Surely she was here? His being the only familiar face amongst the hundreds she’d seen had to be a _sign_ of some sort. Draco was the only link to the future-or her past. If it were _her_ dream, Harry and Ron would be with her. Draco would have his own friends with him. They weren’t each other’s first choice in the matter. No way in hell would she think up such an intricate dream involving Draco Malfoy. 

“I think we’re both here, I just don’t know why.” Hermione dragged her hands over her face. “You wouldn’t be in my dreams and I’m sure I wouldn’t be in yours.” 

“What if this is a nightmare?” he asked, tilting his head. “It seems things are going that way.” 

Hermione stared at him. “But it’s an _absurd_ nightmare! I could never come up with something this complex. We’re in 1944 with a young Voldemort for fucks sake! What would possess me to think up something so nuts?” she drew a calming breath but her voice still came out odd. “I can’t remember ever having a nightmare about you. There’s no reason for me to start.” She pinched herself. “This doesn’t seem like a dream, it’s _real.”_

Draco sat silent for a moment. “The missing time we both seem to have-” 

“What’s the last thing you remember? Before waking up here?” 

The blond shrugged. “The last thing I’m sure happened is the battle.” 

Hermione dragged her hands down her face, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall of the tunnel. “This doesn’t make any sense.” she muttered under her breath, wand loose in her grip as her hands fell to her lap. “Why are we here?” it was another whispered question. Hermione didn’t move when Draco sat down and joined her in staring at the wall. “Am I dead?” she asked aloud, half incredulous. “Is this hell?” She laughed weakly at the thought. 

With a scoff, Draco tilted his head to meet her eyes. “I thought the same when this started.” he drew one leg up and rested his arm on his knee. 

Hermione looked sidelong at him. “‘S good we’re on the same page.” 

“Mm”

“What if we’re stuck here? In whatever this is for the rest of-whatever?” She asked, gesturing weakly. “If there’s no point in trying to-to… What happens if we’re stuck here?” Her voice was hoarse and she struggled to swallow. “I mean it’s not like _any_ of this makes sense; I don’t see how… I don’t see why or how we’re here.” Hermione’s throat was closing up and her vision was cloudy, telltale signs of an oncoming crying fit. She drew a deep breath and gripped her wand tightly, trying to ground herself but it didn’t work. When she tried to continue her rambling, it came out as a strangled sound. 

Draco let his hand rest on hers. “Granger?” 

Through bleary eyes, Hermione looked at him. “Hm-m?” it was an uneven noise with her breathing. 

“I’m not sure what to do with a crying girl, so please don’t do that to me.” 

A choked sob escaped and she shook her head at him. “Y-you’re a dickhead, you know that?” 

“I worried you’d lost yourself; haven’t heard that enough lately.” He squeezed her hand, trying to comfort her, but he had no idea what he was doing. Whenever Pansy had a crying fit she’d throw things and hex anyone in sight. This was new territory. 

Hermione wiped her face with her free hand, sighing deeply. “We need-we need to go to the library. There might be something there-”

“You’re in no state to be running around the castle.” Draco interrupted. “It can wait.” 

“But I’ve barely made any headway!” Hermione exclaimed, leaning to the side and glaring at her companion. “We’ve got fuck-all nothin’ as far as ideas go!” 

He raised a dark blond eyebrow. “And you think you’re going to find something if you go looking for answers in this state?” 

Hermione sat in silence a moment before another weak sob broke free. She wiped her tears with her sleeve, staring straight ahead once more. “I don’t even know where to start looking-what do you research for _this?”_ she gestured weakly. “I don’t even know if we can get out-or find a way to fix this! What if we’re in an alternate reality? Or-or _dead?”_

“You’re spiraling, Granger.”

With a weak smile, the witch shrugged. “I’m tired of things going wrong; there’s always _something._ I’m tired of all of it.” she shook her head at herself and met Draco’s eyes. “I don’t know how much more I can take.” 

In the dim light, her eyes lacked the fiery spark they always had. “Granger, taking some time for yourself isn’t going to kill you.” Draco was never one for inspirational pep talks and he wasn’t about to start. “You don’t have to _take_ anything, you can just _be.”_ She only raised an eyebrow, her eyes still dull. He tried again. “You’re no use if you’re set to losing your mind in a hole in the ground.”

Hermione leaned against Draco with a sigh. “It’s not a _hole,_ it’s a _secret tunnel.”_

“Semantics.”

“You don’t like it?” 

“Why would I enjoy _anything_ about this?” he looked around. It was definitely a hole. A cold, wet, _miserable_ hole in the ground. 

She shrugged. “I think it’s _homey.”_

“I hope you’re kidding.” Draco couldn’t see her face, as she was still leaning against him. “I know you don’t like the Slytherin dorms, but if you think _this_ is favorable, I’d love to see Gryffindor tower.”

Hermione stayed quiet a moment before speaking. “I don’t want to go back just yet.” 

“We can stay in this hole as long as you please.”

“Good.”

Draco relaxed slightly, drawing comfort from Hermione’s presence. In another life, he’d have hexed her before she got close enough to look down his nose at her, but things were different and they both knew it. They were all they had; sometime between the battle of Hogwarts and this moment, things between them had changed. Whether it be the isolation, the forced alliance, or the mutual hatred for Voldemort, things had shifted. He was too preoccupied with Granger’s existential crisis to worry about it. 

The silence between them stretched out until the light was gone from the sky, leaving stars hanging in the wide expanse, the grounds lit up in the moonlight. Draco watched the shadows creep across the floor, Hermione’s _lumos_ had long run out and she didn’t move to recast it. The tunnel wasn’t the most comfortable place to sit, but things like that had stopped bothering Draco since living in a home under the Dark Lord’s command. The whomping willow had calmed for the night, though it still swayed in the wind like a normal tree would. He could hear the forbidden forest whispering in the distance; the calls and answers of creatures meant for darkness echoing in the night.

“We _do_ need to go to the library before curfew.” 

Draco sighed. “And why’s that?” 

“You still need to read that book I was talking about. The one with the spell that’ll let us talk to each other outside of the dorm.” She explained, sitting up. Draco missed her warmth almost immediately. “Time is it?” 

“Dark.” he replied, looking at the entrance to the tunnel. 

“That’s helpful, thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” He cast lumos to check his watch. “We have an hour until the library closes.” 

Standing up with a wince, Hermione brushed the dirt from her robes. “I can make that work.” she held out her hand, scowling when Draco ignored it and pushed himself to stand. “We have to go now though, that alright with you?” 

He gave her a dubious look. “It’s like you think I _enjoy_ spending my time in a hole in the ground.”

“You do realize that’s where foxes live, right?” 

Exasperated, he shook his head at her. “I’m a man first, Granger.” 

“Yeah let’s get you back to your silk pajamas and down comforters.” she teased. 

Scoffing, Draco gave her a weak glare. “I opt for luxury when I can; is that a crime?” 

“Depends.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”

“Neither do I.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, if any are noticed, please let me know.  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> [Chapter word count: 7,500]


	5. Measure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can’t decide if it’s funny or unnerving that you just quoted Mickey Mouse whilst talking about improvised torture devices."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter word count: 10,800]
> 
> graphic content ahead

* * *

_9/9/44 _

_Diary,_

_She threatened me today._

_I will not stand for such treatment. She needs to learn her place; I may enlist Black to lure her out so I can teach her a true lesson. It’s a distraction, one I cannot ignore, but I do believe it will work in my favor in regard to the long run._

_She knows I am a legilimens. It doesn’t make sense- after learning how to sneak into one's thoughts painlessly, no one has ever questioned me. I suppose it is my own fault. I asked about her visions of violence. The witch has made me sloppy. I showed my hand far too early. She is dangerous to me in more than one way._

_I may have to deal with her if I cannot control myself._

_The wizard she knows in Hogsmeade is interesting. I want to know more about him just as I do_ _her._ _The pair of them are similarly tainted by the dark arts. He may be an ally, should I corrupt his relationship with Hermione. It may be too ambitious to pursue both for my plan. I can assign Malfoy or Lestrange to conduct research into this Draco Snape character if I decide to follow that path. The other two are still busy with the girl._

 _Need to gather research for the Herbology report due on Monday. I do wish Beery would lay off the Devil’s Lettuce. The plant reeks of skunk and I’m sure that is not the true name but I heard some sixth year Hufflepuffs talking about it in the halls whilst on patrol so I could be mistaken in assuming. This is the third report the bat has assigned since term has started and I find it incredibly_ _boring_ _work._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/14/44 _

_Diary,_

_I hate her._ _She has humiliated me once more and I_ _will not_ _stand for it._

_Black has nothing to report as of yet. Rosier wants to meet later tonight._

_Beery assigned another report. How do I find this Devil’s Lettuce and what would happen if the professor’s stash of it suddenly_ _disappeared_ _? He seems to be absentminded most days, I do wonder if the bat would even notice._

_T.R._

* * *

**_Sunday, September 10th, 1944_ **

**12:17 A.M.**

“I still think this is insane.” 

“Do you have another idea?” she glared up at him from her spot on the floor, surrounded by her charmed purse’s wares. Hermione was doing her nightly inventory, as per usual. Draco was sprawled across her bed like he owned it. “We need a way to communicate when we aren’t alone.” 

“Whatever.”

**12:53 A.M.**

“Are you done yet?” 

“In that much of a hurry to get inside my head?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, I’m not sure how much longer I can get away with locking myself in my room.” 

“It’s _already_ Sunday.”

“Just finish reading the damn book.” 

“I did. About two hours ago.” 

“Your douchebaggery knows no bounds, Draco Malfoy," she grumbled, standing up. “Why didn’t you say anything before?” 

“I’m not a fan of people being inside my head Granger. It didn’t bode well for me the last time.” he held up the book. “How do we know this wasn’t written by a quack? What kind of name is J. Ranger anyway?” 

**01:29 A.M.**

“How about now?” 

“No” 

**02:15 A.M.**

“Now?”

“Still no.”

“Seriously?” 

“It’s a weak maybe.”

**02:57 A.M.**

“I can feel you staring and if you say _‘now’_ one more time I’m throwing you out.”

_“Douchebag”_

**03:14 A.M.**

“Fine.” 

“Really?” 

“Why would I say yes if I didn’t mean it?” 

“To fuck with me.” 

“Swot.”

“Asshole.”

**03:32 A.M.**

“Are you sure you did it right?” 

“I followed the directions to a T, I don’t know what we’re supposed to expect!” 

“I don’t feel any different.”

“Neither do I.” 

**Sometime around four A.M.**

“It says we have to hold hands.” 

“What? Where the hell does it say that?” 

Draco held the book up, pointing to the correct line. 

“Give me that-” The witch grabbed the book away from him, hunching over as her eyes skimmed the page for the third time that night. “Fine, give me your hand.” she set the book aside and held her free hand out. They were sitting across from each other on Hermione’s bed, the book between them. 

With a heavy sigh, Draco complied. 

Recreating the diagrammed zig zag motion between their heads for the third time, Hermione said the spell. _“Occurrens Mentium”_ Another flourish of her wand. She hoped, prayed for it to work.

Nothing. There was no flash of light, no noise, no sudden epiphany, no jolt of energy. It didn’t work.

Hermione freed their hands and pulled the book closer to reread the passage for the fourth time. **“I’ve done everything right! Why hasn’t this godforsaken thing worked?”**

Draco jolted, staring at Hermione. She was too busy with the book to notice his movement. 

**“What did I miss? I said the incantation correctly, we joined hands, the diagram matches my movements exactly! What the fuck?”**

Her lips weren’t moving. Her lips weren’t moving and Draco could hear Hermione’s voice.

“It worked.” was all he said.

Hermione glanced up, uncomprehending, before going back to the pages. “We might have to try again tomorrow after I’ve slept.” she said; all business, though frustrated. “It should have worked.” she shook her head at herself and kept rambling. “Doesn’t make sense… everything right… incompatible maybe… preexisting feelings…” 

Draco pulled his thoughts through the constant wall of occlumency he kept up and forced them out towards the witch. **“Granger, it worked that time.”**

“Huh?” she glanced up. “You say something?” 

Morgana’s left tit this girl was thick in the head sometimes. “I said _it worked.”_ he repeated, too put off by the spell actually _working_ to have a fit just yet. He hadn’t thought it possible. “I can hear your thoughts.” 

**“Wouldn’t I know? He’s lying, probably wants to give up for the night-we wouldn’t have to if he made up his mind sooner. Son of a bitch.”**

“No need to bring my mother into this.” Draco muttered, not really caring if she heard him. 

Hermione froze and stared at him. “You heard that?” 

**“Yes.”** he answered through the new bond. 

With a hand hovering over her mouth, Hermione stared in silence before raising her eyebrows in a silent question. “Can you hear me?” 

Draco shook his head. 

“How do you do it then? Why can’t you hear the things I _want_ you to hear?” 

With a shrug, he smoothed out his borrowed clothes. “I chose not to occlude the thing I wanted you to hear.” he said, trying to think of a better way to explain it. “I don’t think you were completely occluded earlier so things leaked through. If that’s how these things work.” 

**“Makes sense.”** Hermione raised her eyebrows again. **“Did you hear me that time?”**

 **“It’s scary how quickly you pick things up.”** He replied through the bond again. **“Not that I’m against trying to practice, but can we continue this _after_ we’ve slept?” **

“I was hoping you’d say that sooner or later. I’m dog tired.”

“You aren’t as witty as you think.” said Draco with a low tempered glare. 

Hermione blinked before smiling to herself. “I didn’t even think about that one. It’s instinct by now.”

Draco shook his head at her and transfigured a bed with a wave of his wand, slotting it next to Hermione’s own four poster instead of across the room as he’d taken to doing. He blamed it on not wanting to walk across the room instead of his wanting to stay close to the witch. He yanked the blankets back, intent on sleeping. It was halfway to five in the morning and though the windows yielding views into the black lake wouldn’t let a lot of light through, he wasn’t a fan of sleeping the day away. Not that he had anything to do other than annoy Hermione; but he took that duty seriously. _No one else was going to do it._

“Malfoy?” 

He glanced over, meeting her gaze with a raised eyebrow. She was tucked into her own bed, looking smaller than ever with the blankets pulled up to her chin. The sight jarred him a moment; she always filled a room with her presence- even in a time unfamiliar to her surrounded by future enemies and dark overlords. He admired her for it; he’d always had to fight for that kind of authority after his family fell from grace. 

Hermione stayed quiet for a long while, her expression pensive before shouldering the coverlet closer; it was almost as if she needed protection from the idea she’d had. “Nevermind.” 

The lights dimmed to darkness and the pair stared at the ceiling in an odd silence for far too long, but neither wanted to break it or touch the bond they’d just created. Draco peeled his socks off and threw them to the floor-he knew how much it annoyed the witch. He was wearing a grey hoodie that Hermione had dug out of her overstuffed purse and stolen pajama pants. The Slytherin dungeons weren't known for their warmth, but the cold never bothered Draco before. 

He blamed it on stress. 

_The floor of the manor was as cold as ever. Sensory memory was always strongest in Draco’s dreams and that’s why the sting and ache of his muscles felt so real. He didn’t let himself cry out-not that he could. The cruciatus welded his muscles in place, freezing his throat and jaw shut._

_A crooked wand and black eyes hovered above him. If he dared look away, he’d catch sight of his aunt’s own rotten teeth or pale skin stretched thin over tendons. Azkaban hadn’t been kind to her, but Draco knew she’d interred that crazed look long before her imprisonment._

_The dream was the same almost every time._

_He was sick in the head, too far gone to ask forgiveness. To relive the torture he’d endured after Hermione Granger’s escape from Malfoy Manor was a punishment he willingly thrust upon himself. He’d stood there and watched, his feet frozen to the ground as his aunt tortured and flayed the girl’s skin. It was only fair that he be punished. Not because she’d escaped, but because he hadn’t helped. Nothing he’d done had seemed real until his former classmate was dragged to the center of the floor by her hair. The pleading look in her eyes forced everything to become real._

_That day haunted him. The way her screams echoed off the walls and permeated in his mind. He’d never forget that sound; he wished to never hear it again. The poisoned sting of the blade on his skin was easy to remember. Bellatrix thought it clever to trace the sectumsempra scars he’d received in that godsforsaken bathroom. ‘To make sure you don’t forget your failure, nephew.’ his aunt had explained in a foul hiss. In his mind, it was only fair he suffer the same treatment he’d watched. The poison burned deep in his veins, spreading up and across his skin._

_‘You deserve this.’ his mind screamed, echoing off of nothing and everything. Bellatrix probably said the words as well, but it was nothing he wasn’t telling himself. He did deserve this, though for different reasons than his aunt chose._

_‘Crucio!’ another hot flash of pain burrowed deep into his skin, to his bones._

_But something was off, the voice was wrong._

_Draco met the eyes of his persecutor. In hindsight he should have laughed, or screamed, but he was frozen just as before. Suddenly, the dream was no longer a memory._

_It was odd, seeing Hermione’s face above him, hair wild as ever; her gaze hateful and scorned-the mirror image of Bellatrix. He’d had this nightmare before. ‘How fitting’ he thought as another bout of the Unforgivable wracked his body. It was only fair she inflict the same pain he’d spectated. He’d always come to the conclusion that his mind was evening a score. That’s why the image conjured itself._

_This wasn’t a nightmare. It was a dream. One he deserved to live through time after time. His nightmares were far worse, sometimes he was holding the wand, Hermione or someone else undeserving on the ground as he said the curse in a bored tone. Those were memories as well, but he hated them. He deserved this; reliving the pain he’d endured after his classmates had escaped. It was fair that he suffered through the same mode of torment over and over._

_Self loathing wasn’t a new concept after sixth year. Draco knew he was a twisted individual but every time he woke from this type of dream, he felt clean for a moment. Like he’d tipped the scales to sit evenly upon the pillar. He’d done foul things, but the things he’d done to innocent people were the only things that appeared in his nightmares._

_Crucio, over and over. Those honey colored eyes staring down at him. Sometimes they were empty of emotion, sometimes they were full of fury._

_‘Yes,’ He thought. ‘I deserve this.’_

**Sometime around five A.M.**

Draco woke with a start. 

“I’m sorry...” The voice was pulled so tight it was almost unrecognizable. “I’m so sorry...” In the dim light, Draco saw Hermione tossing and turning, her casting hand clenched into a fist. “Oh God-” a choking sob and then more whimpered apologies. 

_Oh hell,_ he thought, watching the witch. Without really thinking about what he was doing, Draco moved towards Hermione’s form, sitting next to her and pulling her to his side. Crying, he couldn’t deal with. Nightmares, well those were familiar territory. Hermione tensed up but relaxed into him when he started rubbing small circles into her shoulders. “Granger!” it was a soft half whisper but she didn’t wake. Sighing, he tried again. “Hermione!” another soft whisper as to keep from startling her _too_ much. “You’re going to hex me when you wake up.” he muttered. In a sudden bout of clarity, he remembered the bond and decided to use it. **“Wake up Granger.”** it didn’t work right away, but her breathing hitched. 

With a loud inhale, the witch broke free from her mind’s conjured nightmare. Draco retracted his hands as she looked around, her hand reaching for a wand wasn’t there. She’d insisted on keeping it on the nightstand since they were sleeping in the same room, avoiding the possibility of her reflexes acting faster than her mind. Her eyes met his in the dim light, widening slightly. “Malfoy?” 

“You were having a nightmare.” He told her, frozen in place. She looked… broken.

“Oh” she said, like she already knew. Of course she knew. “Er-thanks. For waking me.” she pushed her hair away from her face, hooking it behind her ears. “Sorry if I woke you.” 

“It’s fine.” he knew he should move back to his own bed but she was still looking at him, freezing him to the spot. “We all get them.” 

Hermione nodded and pulled her legs up to her chin, arms wrapped around. “Yeah.” Her tone was empty. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

In the silence, Draco suddenly found the green comforter _extremely_ interesting, focusing on a loose thread instead of the witch whose bed he was in. He twisted it around his finger and snapped it off, spinning it between his thumb and pointer finger to keep busy. Hermione followed the movement. “Are you going to be okay?” he looked up, saw that she was staring at his hands. 

“I’ll deal.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to talk about it?” He hoped to Merlin she said no. He wasn’t ready to start the touchy feely shit. As soon as he said the words, a vision of himself on the manor floor flooded his mind. Red bolts of light escaped the wand in his hand, but it had no effect on the alternate version of himself. _It was like cursing a statue._

Draco blinked and felt himself frown. 

Hermione noticed and looked away, finding the wall very interesting. “Sorry, I forgot about the-” she sighed. “thing.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” he replied, leaning back against the pillows, deep in thought. “Was that it then?” he asked, looking sidelong at her.

A shrug. “Yeah” 

“I thought you said you’d never had a nightmare about me?”

“I lied.”

He hummed out a short laugh. “So did I.”

Hermione stopped looking at the wall. “What?” 

“We said we didn’t have nightmares about each other, didn’t we?” he tilted his head with a small smirk. “We’re both liars.” 

“You have nightmares about me?” 

He gave a half shrug. “Yeah” He had no idea why he was telling her any of this. 

She turned her body towards him. “Seriously?” 

“Why would I lie _again?”_

“I don’t know. Pity?” 

Draco vanished the thread between his fingers. “If I wanted pity, Granger, I’d like to think I could come up with something more damning.” he stared down at his hand for a moment. “Have you had that dream before?” 

“Usually you’re screaming at me to stop. This time you just-sat there. I think that made it worse somehow.” she shrugged. 

Draco hummed. “I think I know what happened.”

“What? D’you think I’ve made some subconscious decision that you’d just sit there and take it now that I’ve gotten to know you?” she asked with a weak laugh.

“No, you were in _my_ dream.” he replied easily, realizing too late the can of worms he’d just opened. “Not yours.” he gestured towards his head. “Makes sense with the addition of the bond, I suppose.” 

Hermione leaned against the headboard, silent for a bit. _“That’s_ what you have nightmares about?” her voice was quiet. He didn’t dare correcting her calling it a nightmare. It was a dream.

“I deserve it-for standing there.” he shrugged. “Makes me feel like I’m righting a wrong.” he wanted to cut his tongue out. _Why was he still talking?_

“Is it always me?” her voice was quiet.

“No, usually it’s my aunt since I’m reliving a memory.” That was too much information-he realized too late. Again. 

Hermione’s eyes bored into him; he wasn’t looking at her but he could feel it. “She tortured you too?” 

“It was a punishment for your escape.” he replied, knowing he was digging a deeper hole for himself. “I’d like to think it was for my lack of action instead.” 

“It wasn’t your fault- there wasn’t much you could do.” 

“I could’ve done a lot of things, Granger.” he met her gaze, tearing his eyes away from his hands. “I won’t make excuses and you shouldn’t either. I was a coward that day, plain and simple.”

They stared at each other in silence for far too long. Draco wanted to curse himself. He’d told her way too much. 

“Well, I’m getting more sleep-” he moved to get into his own bed, but Hermione grabbed his sleeve and stopped him. Draco paused, looked back at her, one eyebrow raised with a question. 

She opened and closed her mouth a few times but didn’t say anything, nor did she let go of his arm. Finally, she took a deep breath. “Can you-will you stay?” she looked ashamed to ask. “I just-” she sighed shakily. “I don’t like to be alone after them-even if it was your dream-”

“Alright.” he didn’t need to hear any more because he knew exactly what she meant. He wasn’t affected by the dream, but she was. He knew the feeling. During the week, he’d laid awake watching over her after waking from a nightmare of his own, her screams still echoing in his ears.

“Really?”

“I get it, Granger”

“Thank you”

“You don’t have to thank me, it’s partially my fault” Draco laid down where he was, pulling the duvet from his own bed so as to not steal any from the witch. He had a terrible habit of somehow mummifying himself in blankets while asleep. “Should have warned you.” 

“You did say it was a fucked up place, your head.” she mused. It was a short moment before she spoke to the ceiling, plans of sleeping temporarily forgotten. “Doesn’t it bother you? That it’s me sometimes?”

“No. Like I said, it’s like we’re evening a score.” Draco shrugged. When her face turned pensive, he continued. “It’s my head, not yours. It doesn’t have to make sense to you.” 

“I just-I’m scared of becoming her.” her voice was small and meek, the complete opposite of her true self. “I think that’s why I have the nightmares-why it bothers me so much.”

“Granger.” he sat up on his elbows to look at her. “You’ll never be anything like her. Trust me.” Hermione didn’t look convinced by his words. “Bellatrix has more malice in her pinky finger than you do in your entire body. The two of you are worlds apart.”

Hermione made a weak noise of dissent. “I’ve had to do things-”

“It was war. We all had to do things we aren’t proud of. I’m far too tired to make some grand speech about your pure of heartedness right now so just take my word for it.” Draco dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re half of the golden trio, that alone proves you’re as different as can be from my aunt.”

“That’s not-did you fail maths? There’s _three_ of us. I’m a third.” 

“One of those imbeciles is worth half of you. It makes perfect sense.” he shook his head and collapsed back onto his side of the bed. “It’s late, don’t expect me to be able to come up with some genius analogy for you.”

“Are you insinuating that your _other_ analogies are genius?” 

“If you keep it up, I’m going to try my luck with Riddle or Goyle’s grandmother.”

Hermione laughed into the duvet. “You poor thing.” she caught sight of his glare. “Okay, fine; sleep, I get it.” 

They fell into another strange silence that stretched on for far too long with the both of them awake. Hermione shifted under the blankets, struggling to get comfortable. Draco was perfectly fine where he was, but he didn’t want to fall asleep before her in case she had a nightmare that required him to wake her again. 

“Can-” she stopped herself, opting to pull at her duvet instead. The rest of her question hung in the air, unsaid.

“Spit it out Granger.”

“I don’t...” she trailed off. Instead of speaking, she chose to keep up her ruse of the bed being uncomfortable; fluffing the pillows and fooling with the blankets before laying back down, her body rigid. 

With a sigh, Draco took a chance and looped one arm under her shoulders, the other went to her hip, pulling her closer. “Alright?” he asked, his body rigid. Maybe he’d been too ballsy. Misread the situation. Hermione Granger wasn’t the average witch. Far from it. 

Hermione relaxed into him after a moment. “Thanks”

Draco knew that he needed this just as much as she did, so he didn’t say anything. He could have gone with the simple ‘you’re welcome’ but it seemed too self serving and he didn’t know if he’d even be able to say the words. A noncommittal noise would have worked just as well. Maybe a ‘sure Granger’ or a simple ‘yeah’. By the time he decided on a reply, the silence had dragged on for far too long. So he didn't say anything. 

Nightmares failed to make themselves known the rest of that night. 

* * *

**_Thursday, September 14th, 1944_ **

It’d been four days since enacting the bonding spell and all it did was enable them to argue. Constantly. It was better than sitting silently all day, so Draco hadn’t insisted on reversing it just yet. If Hermione had an opinion on the matter, she had yet to voice it. 

Hogwarts’s library was alive with sound. It irked Draco. The whole ‘heightened sense of sound’ thing was a _major_ downside to his second form. Why did it have to be a fox? Of all things, a fox? Sure, they were known for their cunning and craftiness, but they were still animals. Animals that were much too sensitive to sound and scent. 

The library was supposed to be a quiet safe haven, but the muttering amongst classmates partnered for assignments sounded like it was right next to him-even though it was well across the room. The clock ticked loudly, chairs screeched across the floor, and then there were the two fifth years sloppily making out behind the bookcases on the far end of the room. Draco wanted to hex them for being so loud and disgusting. 

Instead of hexing them, he paced. It was the only thing he _could_ do, since Hermione refused to leave for another hour. Classes had been boring-he’d taken to people watching, which never amounted to much. No one paid him any mind other than the odd glance here and there. 

Evan Rosier caught his eye more than once. He didn’t openly consort with Riddle, but with Draco’s knowledge of the family, he knew the wizard was to become one of the first Death Eaters. The kid didn’t talk unless prompted, and Hermione had yet to truly interact with him. He was a silent shadow to the pair, always watching and waiting for something. At first, Draco thought it was a coincidence that Rosier happened to be in the same places, but it was too frequent to be accidental anymore. 

Odd, the things you notice when no one notices you. 

Hermione was knee-deep in research; looking for anything that would explain their current situation. He didn’t have to ask to know that she hadn’t come up with a reasonable explanation just yet. Any time he said anything that hinted at there being no explanation, she’d glare and set out to ignore him until she couldn’t. 

**“Stop pacing. It’s distracting.”**

He thought it funny that the witch could still convey annoyance-even through a telepathic connection. **“I’m bored.”** was all he allowed through the bond.

**“I’ll be done in an hour. Can’t you just sit down?”**

**“We’ve been here for hours, Granger. There’s not much else to do unless you want to try to explain to someone why your Familiar is reading a book.”**

The witch only glared from the desk she’d taken over. 

Their bond didn’t seem to have any real effect on the pair aside from what was intended. In the book, J. Ranger had warned against shared characteristics manifesting themselves but Draco had yet to experience such a thing. After Saturday night, they had gone back to sleeping in separate beds and went about pretending like it never happened. It was a good thing, too. Draco never was the touchy feely sort. He loathed to even think about what he’d say if Hermione wanted to have some kind of heart to heart. Aside from the first night, dreams and nightmares failed to appear, and he was glad for it. If she happened upon one of his _actual_ night terrors, he’d destroy the bond and avada himself. It’d be more than a nightmare come alive if she stumbled into his head at the wrong time. 

Instead of staying close to Hermione, he wandered the library. No one paid him any mind, so he took to exploring the restricted section-just because he could. What was the librarian going to do? Give an animal detention? 

Books rattled on the shelves and he let himself read over the titles. _The Book of the Damned, Encyclopedia of Eville Enchantments, Moste Potente Potions,_ and strangest of all; a recollection of declassified events by someone with the name of Eragon Alloy. It was both the danger of being found out and the very real chance he’d be hexed by any book he touched that kept him from attempting anything. It’d be near impossible to steal anything out of the restricted section without being seen if he happened upon a sudden urge to read banned titles. 

Draco left the restricted section and took to exploring the rest of the library. Nothing had changed. The shelves were still the same warm wood and sat in the same places. Students worked on assignments in loud whispers-but to a human set of ears, he suspected their volume would be perceived as normal. 

Invisible flames burned their way up his arm-or leg-whatever, and Draco knew that Riddle was close, much too close. It hadn’t taken long to be able to discern the different levels of heat pertaining to the mark. Right now, it told him that its maker was in the library. 

**“He’s here.”** he pushed through the bond, knowing that Hermione would do well to take the heads up. If someone paid too close attention to the titles she’d hoarded, someone would ask questions. 

**“Ten-four Hoss.”**

Draco didn’t reply, mostly because he had no idea what the fuck that meant. He made his way back around the library, wanting to be close to the witch. Maybe it was because he wanted to protect her; maybe it was to draw comfort in her proximity. Neither reason would bode well for him. It was dangerous; this getting close to Hermione-caring about her. Caring more than he did before. 

It was setting him up for sabotage. 

Hermione met him in an aisle, reshelving some of the books she’d taken. The names alone were damning enough to draw suspicion. She shared a single look with him before levitating the other books back to their original spots. The witch made to return to the table, but paused to pull an unassuming title from the shelf. Something about Herbology. 

Five minutes after she sat down, Riddle approached. Draco didn’t pay attention to their conversation; his eyes were on Evan Rosier. The wizard had crept closer-he no longer sat against the wall, instead he took a place at the desk opposite Hermione’s. 

“....needed in Dippet’s office.”

“Regarding?” Asked Hermione

“Your Familiar.” came the answer. It pulled Draco’s attention from Rosier to Riddle, but he made sure to keep from looking at the man. Animals didn’t look humans in the face. “Students have raised concerns about your bringing the animal about the castle.” 

“I see” Hermione seethed. 

Draco ignored the visions of violence flashing through the bond. It’d been unexpected the first time it happened, but he didn’t speak of it and neither did the witch. She lost control around Riddle and the visions were the result. He sat down next to the witch’s leg and leaned against her, a reminder that she needed to keep it together. He couldn’t use the bond if there was a chance Riddle was in her mind. The violent nature of the little home movies Hermione’s mind created didn’t bother him much. He’d be a hypocrite if he took offense to them. His own head conjured some pretty questionable memories bathed in blood and dark magic. 

“If you’ll follow me?”

Draco hung back a decent distance as he followed Hermione to the headmaster’s office. She was intent on shutting down any conversational attempt Riddle made. He thought it funny she could ignore the Dark Lord so easily but she'd fall into an angry stupor should Draco share a few choice words. The witch _always_ allowed an argument to ensue between them. 

With Riddle so close, neither dared touch the telepathic link. Draco knew how easily the man could worm his way into a mind-he’d find any small crack in the walls of occlumency should he want to. 

It was outside the gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office that Riddle’s eyes turned to Draco. “The headmaster asked if you would leave _it_ out of this meeting.” 

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “It?” she repeated, tone incredulous. “Really?” 

“Your Familiar.” Riddle offered. 

With a reluctant shrug, Hermione met Draco’s eyes for a second. “He’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure he will.” Riddle’s face warped into something odd with the words. 

Moments later, they were gone and Draco was alone in the hallway. He thought about pacing, but decided to sit opposite the gargoyle. For the first time since their arrival, they were separated. Sure, they’d been apart before-when Hermione went next door to Allison and Elizabeth’s room, or when she’d sat in the commons to keep up appearances while he stayed in the room, but never like this. Hermione was alone with Riddle and the headmaster _and he wasn’t there._

Spiraling spiraling spiraling. 

His dependence on Hermione was a weakness; he knew. Draco shouldn’t have been affected by her absence but it wasn’t his choice. It wasn’t something he sought; this reliance on the witch. It was dumb, stupid, completely careless-but he couldn’t help it. If he tried to make it make sense, he’d say it was due to their constant proximity to one another, their alliance borne of larger evil being afoot. They were all they had. 

Still, it wasn’t smart.

Students wandered past, eyeing him before continuing on their way, whispering to one another about who they had crushes on and next week's Charms quiz. Draco had never been that kind of student. In school, he was a dictator that got what he wanted. He was never challenged by the curriculum. He didn’t stress himself over pop quizzes and exams. No, Draco Malfoy stressed over his entire family being put to death if he failed the Dark Lord and the fact that Harry Potter was a nosy prat. 

_Worlds apart._

The meeting dragged on and he heard nothing from Hermione through the link, so it was either good or bad. If she felt she didn’t need to use it, she was fine. If she felt she _couldn’t_ use it, she was far from fine. Surely Riddle wouldn’t do anything to her right under the headmaster’s nose? But then again, he did kill Myrtle Warren with a giant Basilisk just a year ago- _inside_ the school. Draco hated how much he’d grown to care about the witch. Seeing her on the floor of the manor had jumpstarted that strange feeling. The feeling that he had to protect her.

He was so wrapped up in his worrying that he’d stopped paying attention to his surroundings. 

_“Petrificus totalus”_ came a low raspy voice. Draco’s entire body was frozen. It bothered him-of course it bothered him. He was separated from Granger _and petrified_ -what if the witch needed his help? He’d heard the password to the office. He could get inside. _“wingardium leviosa”_ said that same raspy voice. Draco couldn’t see his attacker but he knew his body was moving-floating through the air. It was unnerving and he was only getting more pissed off. 

He was thrown into an empty classroom, his kidnapper muttering a _“Finite”_ before Draco hit the ground. Still in animagus form, Draco spun to see who the hell took him, keeping his anger at bay for the time being. 

Evan Rosier. 

Of course. 

Instead of doing something brash, Draco appraised the wizard, waiting for him to make the first move. The kid locked the door and cast a silencing charm over the room before letting his gaze land on Draco.

“When I was asked to join a cult, I really didn’t think that ‘torturing the new girl’s Familiar’ would ever be on the list of requests.” said Rosier, twisting his wand in his hands. “I was hoping for something more sinister, you know? I mean you _don’t know,_ you’re only a fox. I’m offended Riddle couldn’t give me anything better to do.” 

Creeping behind a desk, Draco listened to the speech. It was the most he’d ever heard the guy say. 

“I mean, when he brought up the whole plan, I thought it was a waste of time. It’s not like that Granger witch has done anything. She doesn’t even like him! I can tell-I’ve been watching. It’s like he’s got a crush on her or something.” The wizard rounded the room and Draco moved from one hiding place to another, weighing his options. “You’ve probably noticed. My watching, I mean. Animals tend to notice things that we humans don’t. Instincts and all that.”

Rosier paused as if he was expecting an answer. 

“If you ask me, Riddle’s mad with power. Malfoy and Black do his bidding without a second thought. And it’s not like I can talk about this with either of them, so you’ll have to do. It’s not like a fox can expose my lack of faith, right? You can’t speak.” Rosier flipped over the desk that Draco had taken to hiding behind. “I’m real sorry about this, but I’m glad we got to talk. It’s nice talking to someone that can listen, you know what I mean?” Rosier raised his wand, a curse ready on his lips. 

Never in Draco’s life would he think that he would need to bite someone. 

Blood poured from the wound and into his mouth. Draco would have gagged but he was too preoccupied with dodging Rosier’s hexes. He tore into the wizard’s leg again, saving the disgust for later. His animagus self had some decently sharp teeth. 

Pausing in the middle of the room, Rosier leaned against a desk. “You’re a feisty one, I’ll give you that.” Rosier extended his leg to assess the damage. “You followed that witch around so obediently I thought you’d lost touch with your true nature.” Rosier shrugged, blood seeping out of his calf to pool on the floor. Draco had taken a rather large chunk out of his skin. “I won’t hold it against you since you’re just an animal defending yourself. People are still more my style.” he flipped another desk over in pursuit of Draco. “But I do have to do this. I don’t take kindly to being crucio’ed for insubordination. It hasn’t happened yet; but I reckon I wouldn’t like it.” another desk was pushed aside. “I don’t do well with failure, you see.” his wand was raised. _“Crucio”_

Draco ducked low to the ground, the curse just missing him. He knew that he wouldn’t outlast the wizard-he was running all over the room dodging curses while Rosier stood stationary. He had to fight back. No way in hell was he going to sit there and take torture sanctioned by Riddle. Slinking behind one of the overturned desks, he dropped his hold on the animagi spell and took his human form. 

Pulling his wand from his pocket, Draco closed his eyes a moment; listening for Rosier’s steps. 

“You’re proving to be a fine dueling partner, and you don’t even have hands. I don’t know what that says about me.” said Rosier. “I’ve never had to torture a fox before, maybe I’ve just underestimated you.” 

Holding back a scoff, Draco waited. 

“You know I can’t go back without completing the mission, as stupid as I think it is.” Rosier mused. “Talking to you has made me feel better for some reason. Maybe I’ll get to know your witch in case I decide I want to do this again.” Rosier’s steps were loud in the silence. “The talking part-not the torture part.” 

Draco aimed a spell towards the voice without looking over the tabletop. _“Expelliarmus''_ It was a second later that he stood up, anger bubbling deep beneath his skin. He didn’t take kindly to being kidnapped and tortured inside an empty classroom. _“Accio Wand”_ the piece of wood flew to his free hand while his wand was leveled at Rosier’s face. “You talk too much.” was all Draco said.

Rosier stared for too long before his eyes slid to the door.

He barely flicked his wand with the jinx. _“Locomotor Wibbly”_ When Rosier’s legs stopped cooperating, Draco allowed a dry laugh to leave his lips. With a nonverbal spell, Rosier was thrown across the floor and slammed into the wall. “Tell me, why does Riddle have you bothering little old me?” His tone was cold and teasing. 

Rosier stared in shock.

Draco walked over, picking up a bronze letter opener on the way. “I asked you a question, Rosier.” he knelt down next to the man. “I know you can talk; had me _wishing_ for torture with how much noise you made.”

Rosier met Draco’s eyes. “Go to hell.”

“I hoped you’d be difficult.” Draco grinned. Rosier’s blood was still all over his face. He knew he looked a mess, but Draco Malfoy was nothing if not dramatic- so he left it. A reminder for his kidnapper-turned-hostage. With a simple charm he’d learned for potions class, he took to heating the letter opener. The metal glowed orange and he raised his eyes to meet Rosier’s. “Last chance…” he dragged the words out as he cut Rosier’s school shirt open, button by button. “Why did Riddle assign you to torture Granger’s Familiar?” 

No answer. 

The stench of burnt flesh hit Draco’s nose but it didn’t bother him, he’d gotten over it long ago. Rosier sang his discomfort, eyes screwed shut. Draco pulled the blade away, waiting for an answer. Rosier’s eyes were bright and filled with hatred. “Fuck you!” 

“Language.” Draco reheated the blade and let it hover atop Rosier’s navel. “Answer the question.” 

“Screw you!”

Draco tsked. “That’s no way for a pureblood to talk.” the dull blade melted through Rosier’s flesh like butter. 

He’d never tell anyone about his affinity for torture. It both haunted and thrilled him. Not even Bellatrix Lestrange could stomach the things he’d done. There was no denying Draco was a warped individual; it was the byproduct of growing up in a house where Voldemort and Death Eaters ran rampant through the halls. Innocent or deserving, he was put to the task of punishing the Lord’s followers for insubordination. Voldemort had made Draco one of his side projects, grooming him for the new world order.

There was a line, however. Torturing a fellow Death Eater was no problem. Torturing an innocent _bothered him._ It was what he had nightmares about; why he hated himself. He still had a conscience, he wasn’t a complete monster. 

He was going easy on Rosier; even though everything inside of him wanted to flay the man’s skin from the wrist up, dissect the tendons and try to discover what it was that made a Muggleborn different from a Pureblood. He had yet to find anything different. 

Pulling away to reheat the letter opener, Draco studied Rosier’s face. It was filled with hate and something else. Something he’d seen on Crabbe and Goyle in their younger days. _Admiration._

“I’m not a patient man, Rosier.” He warned with a cruel smile. 

With a strong glare, Rosier tilted his head, accepting the challenge. “I’ve got all night.”

Draco set the letter opener down on Rosier’s chest with a sticking charm. The skin sizzled and turned red, yellow, white ash. “I’d like to go to bed at a decent time today.” he held his wand over the letter opener, reheating the entirety of the metal before dragging his wand over the rest of Rosier’s chest, the skin turning black and burnt with the concentrated flame. 

It was starting to go to his head. Draco’s mind was running wild, the possibilities were endless, but he needed information. This wasn’t the time nor place to torture a future Death Eater for shits and giggles. “More?” Draco made a show of making the flame at the tip of his wand bigger-a white hot blue. -Like the propane blowtorch he’d used at the manor. 

“Fine, fine, just-” Rosier heaved a breath. “-fine.” he ceded.

Draco was slow in removing the cooling blade from Rosier’s melted skin. “I’m waiting.” 

“Riddle wanted to even a score. Your witch humiliated him.” 

He tried recalling an event of the sort. “And how did she manage to do that?” he asked, tone far too calm compared to the emotions broiling beneath. He held his wand close to Rosier’s ear, more for show than anything else. He couldn’t permanently disfigure the wizard where others could see-that would draw unwanted attention. 

“I don’t know! It had something to do with Slughorn. That’s all he said about it.” 

“Why come after me then?” Draco raised an eyebrow. It was so unlike Voldemort that he wondered if Tom Riddle was the same man he knew. It was sloppy. “Why show his hand?” 

“I was supposed to torture and poison you-the _animal_ you. Riddle was going to pretend to help her find an antidote to earn her trust.” Rosier’s hands went to the fresh wounds on his chest, trying to soothe them. “It was a multi-step plan.” 

Nodding, Draco moved to sit next to the man, leaning up against the wall. “That sounds more like him.” he spit on the ground, grimacing when he realized he’d probably swallowed a fair amount of blood when he’d bitten Rosier.

“You don’t sound surprised.” 

He looked sidelong at Rosier, confused at the admiration he still saw. “I’m not.”

“Are you going to kill me now?” 

Draco smiled-it was all teeth, still stained with blood. “You’re far too useful to kill just yet.” 

* * *

**_Thursday, September 14th, 1944_ **

“Miss Granger, Tom, welcome.” Dippet smiled from his desk. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?” 

“No, thank you Headmaster.” 

“I’d love some, thanks” 

Hermione kept from glaring at the snake next to her. He was a bastard, plain and simple. Of course Dippet would be under Riddle’s spell. _Of course._

Instead of taking the proffered tea, Hermione looked around the room. The bookshelves were well organized, the desk uncluttered, the furniture simple and tasteful. It was far too clean for her to be comfortable. She missed Dumbledore’s eclectic disaster of a study. 

“I imagine you’re wondering why you’ve been summoned to my office?” Dippet’s voice dragged Hermione from her scrutinization of the office. 

With a nod, she spoke. “Riddle said it was something to do with my Familiar?” 

“Yes, there’s been some concern about allergies and excuse me-carried diseases.” 

Holding back an angry tirade, Hermione forced herself to relax. “I can assure you, my Familiar is of sound health. As for allergies, I looked into a spell to counter any reactions after my first day here.” 

Dippet raised an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Allison Parkinson made a passing comment about my assignment to a private room because of possible allergies. I decided to be proactive and counter any effects of my Familiar’s hair or dandruff to save students from having to visit the hospital wing for a remedy.” she shrugged. “Saves us all the time and headache.” 

Riddle stiffened in his chair but Hermione didn’t pay him any mind. She wasn’t going to try to figure out what she’d done now. 

“I see.” said the headmaster. “You’ve been very thorough.” he sipped his tea, the porcelain clinking in the silence. “But that leaves one more issue that needs to be covered in this meeting.” he glanced towards Riddle. “It’s been reported that your familiar accompanies you to meals and classes. No one else does such a thing, could you explain why?” 

Hermione’s mind reeled in an answer fairly quickly. “I find that having my Familiar around lessens my anxiety.” It was the truth, simply put. Though that was more Draco than anything else. She liked keeping him close, that she had an ally no one knew about. 

“And your Familiar’s presence in class, do you deem it necessary to your schooling?”

Hermione nodded slowly. “I find that I do better when he’s around. The war made me a bit jumpy and anything I can do to lessen that anxiety is necessary to my day to day life.” she didn’t specify _which_ war. She knew Dippet would assume her mind’s unrest was caused by the muggle war raging across half the continent. That was fine with her. “I’ve taken all of the precautions in regard to my Familiar’s presence in classes, I assure you.” 

Dippet smiled, believing the bucket of horse shit she’d just presented him with. “Well it seems you’ve done your due diligence, Miss Granger.” he waved a hand to pour himself more tea. “How have you been settling in?” 

She wanted to scream. Draco was probably pacing a groove in the floor outside the gargoyle guarding the office. Hermione knew he’d be cross if he found out she partook in idle conversation instead of returning to their dorm room like they’d talked about. “Well, thank you. Classes are lovely.” she answered his next question before he voiced it; she knew how these things went. ‘How are you faring? How are your classes? Make any friends?’

“And your peers, what do you think of them?” 

Hermione smiled inwardly at how predictable people were. “I get along with them. I do miss my friends from home though.” truth mixed in with lies. “If you’ll excuse my asking, would it be possible for me to return to the library? I fear I’ve slacked on my Herbology report that’s due tomorrow.” a lie that hurt. Hermione Granger would never fall behind on assignments.

The headmaster nodded a bit too enthusiastically. “Of course! I wouldn’t want to keep you from your studies!” He stood up at the same time she did, like a true gentleman would. Hermione would have questioned it, but Draco always did the same thing. She hid a smile when she noticed that Riddle didn’t immediately stand, having forgotten. He’d been pretending to be a pureblood all his life, but he was expected to slip up sometimes. He hadn’t had the manners forced into him from the time he could walk. “Lovely speaking with you Miss Granger, I appreciate your time.” he extended a hand, which Hermione shook with a small smile. 

“Of course Headmaster.” 

“I can escort you.” Riddle said, already moving, but Dippet had other plans. 

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble Tom, I wished to discuss something with you-regarding the prefect’s roster.” 

With a pained nod, Riddle sat back down. “Of course sir” he went right back to the laidback wannabe pureblood he’d been before. ‘Thank god’, Hermione thought, looking between the two men. She hated how Riddle always _insisted_ he escort her places. 

Hermione left the office, taking care not to seem hurried while they could still see her. When the gargoyle allowed her exit, she froze. Draco wasn’t pacing, or sitting, or doing anything. He was gone. 

**“Where the hell are you?”** she forced through the bond. 

It was a moment before he answered. **“The Charms classroom that Flitwick thinks is haunted.”**

Hermione didn’t bother asking him to meet somewhere, because if he managed to wander that far, he was probably pissed already. The halls were mostly clear of students, and the ones she came across were friendly enough, waving hello and smiling politely. She didn’t bother returning the sentiments. 

Reaching the door, she tried pushing it open, but it was locked and warded-with _her_ wards. Taking a deep breath, she knocked. 

It was a long few seconds before Draco yanked the door open and pulled her inside. 

“What did he want? Did he do anything?” Draco’s hands were searching for wounds and his voice was borderline frantic. “What took you so long?” 

Hermione didn’t say anything right away-not that she _could,_ with his rambling questions-but he was covered in blood. It was just starting to dry and he looked positively _feral._ The bottom half of his jaw was covered with it, and it’d crept down his neck and soaked into his shirt.

“You’re bleeding,” she said. “Why are you bleeding?” she reached for him, trying to search for wounds just as he’d done to her.

Draco batted her hands away, looking at her like she’d gone mad. “It’s not mine.” he said, pulling his shirt collar up to wipe it away. It was in his teeth, in his hair. He looked at the fabric with open disgust before turning his eyes back to her. “Did he hurt you?”

“No” she replied, still staring at him. “Whose blood is that?” 

“Oh” he shrugged. “You missed a few things on your date.” 

“It wasn’t a date.” she seethed, glaring at him before looking around the room. “Why are you here? And why are you- _you?”_ Hermione transfigured a scrap of paper into a rag and handed it to him. “Why are you covered in blood?” 

“He bit me.” came a new voice.

Hermione startled, looking around the room and noticing a slumped figure against the far wall. She deemed him harmless for the time being and she glared at Draco. “You _bit_ someone?” her voice rose in pitch. “Have you gone completely insane?” she started towards the slumped figure and recognized him to be Evan Rosier. “What were you _thinking?”_

“Tell her, Rosier.” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Draco before turning attention to the newcomer. “Tell me what?” 

Rosier looked like he didn’t want to say anything but schooled himself, resigning to listen to orders. “Riddle wanted me to torture and poison your boyfriend here-” 

“Not my boyfriend” Hermione interrupted.

“Seemed plenty worried about him a few minutes ago.” 

“Rosier” Came Draco’s warning tone. 

The wizard held his hands out in surrender. “Fine, fine.” he sighed. “Riddle wanted me to torture and poison your Familiar-who I didn’t know was _not_ a Familiar, by the way. After a few minutes of me trying to hex and curse him, he _shapeshifted_ and disarmed me. Among other things.” 

Hermione blinked. “Why-” 

“Riddle was going to pretend to help with an antidote to get in your good graces.” Rosier continued, staring at his hands instead of Hermione or Draco. “It’s all part of some grand plan for revenge since you embarrassed him. I don’t know anything other than that.” 

“And why would you tell me what you _do_ know?” 

Rosier stared at her a moment. “Your not-boyfriend is _terrifying.”_ he said it like it was obvious. Catching sight of her confused expression, he grew incredulous. “He tortured me!” 

“Didn’t you just say _you_ were going to torture _him?”_ Hermione countered, raising an eyebrow.

Rosier opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Yes-but he did it by hand! I was only going to crucio him a few times and maybe throw in a few hexes, but he’s off his bloody rocker!” 

Hermione looked behind her to see that Draco had taken to sitting atop a desk to continue trying to clean the blood from his face with the conjured handkerchief. “You didn’t use magic?” she asked, tilting her head. For some reason the information bothered her. 

“It’s better to do it by hand.” he said simply. 

“See! He’s a bloody psychopath! Worse than me!” 

“Shut up Rosier.” said Draco

Rosier’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. 

“We have to obliviate him of course” Hermione muttered. “Seen you-” she stopped for a moment. “What’s going to happen when Riddle asks about this?” she shook her head. “I’m no good with altering memories, and Riddle’s a legilimens, he’d see right through it-” 

“Granger?”

Hermione paused her rambling at the interruption. “Yes?” 

“I’ve taken care of it” 

Sputtering, she gestured to Rosier, still slumped on the floor. “How?” she exclaimed. “He’s over there rambling! How could you have taken care of it when the problem is still there?” 

“He’s imperiused.” Draco said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s to tell us about all of Riddle’s little plots in the future and he’s going to report back that I did _in fact_ receive a dose of the poison.” he shrugged. “He’s not to speak a word of my existence to anyone but you. And I’ve made sure he can’t lie to me.” he ground his jaw. “Honestly Granger, you wound me. Give me a little credit.” 

“You imperiused him?” she asked, looking back at the slumped wizard. “You can’t just go around throwing unforgivables at people!” 

“Would you rather I sit back and take whatever he was planning to do? What if the poison actually killed me?” 

“You’re being dramatic!” 

Draco glared at her. “The poison was brewed by Riddle. I’m pretty sure he knows what he’s doing in a potions lab” 

Rosier took that moment to start slapping his hands on the floor, drawing their attention. “What, Rosier?” Draco asked, his tone far too tight. 

“The lady makes a fair point. What happens if Riddle tries to look in my head?” 

“You don’t let him.” said Draco with a scowl. “Occlumency is a skill I’m sure you have.” 

Rosier looked dumbfounded. “He’ll get suspicious!” 

“Show him the memory of you almost crucio-ing me and call it a day.” Draco snapped. “Besides, you’re to go to the infirmary after this to get your leg healed. Say you’re tired or something of that nature.” A particularly nasty glare was sent towards the wizard. “You’re a slytherin, act like it.” 

Noticing the pooling blood on the floor for the first time, Hermione rushed over, about to heal the wounds. “No, don’t” Rosier held out his hands to stop her, like he knew what she was about to do. “He’s right. If I spend the night in the infirmary Riddle won’t dig for details.” flinching at his own movements, he grimaced. “These, I don’t know how to explain though.” 

Rosier’s chest was covered in blistering burns, yellow serum bleeding from pink flesh, layers of skin peeling away from the heat. “What did you _do?”_ she asked, turning to look at Draco. 

“He wasn’t giving me the information I wanted.” Draco replied, wetting the rag and rubbing at his face again. 

“You can’t just-”

“Can’t just _what_ Granger?” Draco challenged. “Get even? That’s what’s gotten us into this mess. You’ve somehow managed to piss off Riddle. That’s what landed us here. At least I had a real score to settle. Don’t act as if Rosier is the innocent party here.” 

“He’s right, I’m not.” said Rosier. “You wouldn’t be this nice to me if I’d been tasked with _your_ torture.” 

Draco stood up, the desk scraping across the floor; Rosier had the sense to look scared. “And who is?” Asked Draco in a dangerously calm voice. 

“No one” Rosier rushed out. “No one’s supposed to touch her!” 

Satisfied with the answer, Draco went back to the desk. “You catch word of anything pertaining to Granger, you come straight to us.” he commanded. 

Rosier nodded. “Alright. Fine.” 

“I can heal these.” Hermione muttered, using her wand to push Rosier’s shirt aside. “We don’t need any extra attention.”

“Thank you” Said Rosier. “I did tell him I thought about becoming friends with you-granted it was so that I could talk to your Familiar and not you, but I _did_ say that. Now, I don’t know, since he’s not even a real Familiar.” 

Hermione muttered a healing incantation and watched the skin regenerate itself, pink welts fading into his skin. “I didn’t think you talked this much” 

“Oh, I’ve got plenty to say, it’s just finding the right person to talk to about it.” Rosier wiggled his eyebrows. “Can’t see anything wrong with plaguing you two with my ramblings since you’re not friendly with Riddle.” 

“I’ll cast a numbing charm on your leg so you can get to the infirmary.” Hermione told him, moving her attention to the bloody mess. She caught sight of the wound and nearly gasped-Draco’s animagus form had done a number on Rosier-it was sure to scar. A chunk of muscle was missing; she could see the striated meat pulling taught with his movements.

“Been meaning to ask, you ain’t got rabies or nothin’ have you?” Rosier looked past Hermione to his attacker. “Honest question.” 

Shaking her head, Hermione cast the numbing charm. “It’d be best if you told the healer that this _wasn’t_ my Familiar. I just got done proclaiming my need to keep him with me at all times.” she didn’t look up to catch Draco’s reaction; she knew it was an angry one-not at her, but at Riddle, _probably._ “A report of him attacking a student won’t bode well.” 

“Your wish is my command.” Said Rosier with a wink. “Literally. Your boyfriend skipped the part where he was supposed to tell you I have to do whatever you say.” 

“He’s not my fucking boyfriend!” Hermione muttered, exasperated. “We’re barely even friends.” 

Rosier raised an eyebrow and rebuttoned his shirt. “Way you two were bickering, I’d have thought you’d have been married for upwards of a decade.” 

“Well I _command_ _you_ to stop referring to him as my _boyfriend.”_ Hermione seethed, pushing herself to her feet. “If I don’t hex you for it, he will.” 

Rosier only shrugged. 

Turning her attention back to Draco, she crossed the room and appraised him. “You’re still covered in blood.” she took the rag from his hands and cast a silent _scourgify_ over the cloth before adding on an _aguamenti_ . “How’d you get it in your _hair?”_ she asked, reaching out to touch the offending strands. 

“I wasn’t paying attention to the _mess_ so much as the ‘not getting crucio’ed’ part.” he replied, stiff as a board under her scrutiny. 

Remembering that magic was still a thing, Hermione cast a _scourgify_ charm on Draco’s person before focusing on the rest of the room. For the first time, she noticed the overturned desks and blood painted across the floor. “You couldn’t have cleaned up after yourself?” she asked, using the tried and true _wingardium leviosa_ to right the furniture. She cast yet another _scourgify_ to get rid of the blood. 

“I was busy.” came the curt reply. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh I’m sure. Fuck off.” 

“Hey! How come she gets to swear and I don’t?” asked Rosier.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You banned him from swearing?” 

“I said it was unbecoming for a pureblood to swear. I didn’t explicitly bar the words from his vocabulary.” Draco straightened his robes, needing to busy his hands. 

“And what would you know about being a pureblood?” Asked Rosier. “I don’t remember your name, what was it again?” 

Hermione glared. “Can we measure later? Apparently I have a complicated antidote to fake-brew.” 

“Measure what?” asked Rosier, looking between Hermione and Draco. “What are we measuring?” 

Draco frowned. “Is that what I’m like? Whenever you use one of your _references?”_ he asked in a low whisper as to not clue Rosier into their side-conversation. 

“You usually get more pissy when you don’t understand.” 

“I do not.” 

“Do too.” she chided. 

Rosier cleared his throat. _“Hello?_ What are we measuring?” 

Hermione turned to him, exasperated. “Your dicks! Your family tree! I don’t know, pick something!” she shook her head at the dark haired wizard. “Why are you still here and not on the way to the infirmary?” 

Rosier blinked. “You didn’t say I could leave yet. Can I have my wand back?” 

“Yes.” Draco answered. “Don’t forget our agreement or you’ll be seeing that letter opener again.” 

Without another word, Rosier gathered his things and bolted, leaving Draco and Hermione alone in the room. 

“What does a letter opener have to do with anything?” 

“It’s a surprise tool that can help us later.” 

Missing nothing, Hermione gave him a flat stare. “I can’t decide if it’s funny or unnerving that you just quoted Mickey Mouse whilst talking about improvised torture devices.”

Draco fixed her with a dubious look. “Don’t you have a potion to brew or something?”

Sighing, Hermione dragged her hands over her face. “Why can’t he just-I don’t know-go play in the girl’s bathroom and feed unsuspecting Death Eaters to the Basilisk? Why does Riddle have to fuck with me?” she leaned against the desk opposite Draco. 

“What did Dippet want?” Draco crossed his arms, looking intimidating without even trying. _When did he get that tall?_

Hermione regained some composure, smoothing out her hair. “I think Riddle was just trying to separate us. I’ll tell you the details on the way to the dorm room.” 

“You’re not going to the potions lab?” 

The witch only shrugged. “No. Rosier will tell Riddle that he poisoned you and I’m going to bed instead of concocting an antidote we don’t even need. What’s Riddle going to do? Ask why you haven’t keeled over dead yet?” she pushed off the desk and made her way towards the door. “Let’s go before I _really_ start plotting Riddle’s demise.”

The silence on the walk to their room was heavy. Hermione’s thoughts went to Draco and his apparent affinity for torture. Where did he learn that? Why didn’t he use his wand? He put his hands to work, warping and molding Rosier into the perfect puppet. 

_Respect and fearful admiration a willing participant make._ The words echoed around her mind, an odd accent adorning the voice.

Hermione’s thoughts wandered to Rosier. If Riddle noticed something was up with him, he’d dig deeper. There was a very real possibility of them being found out if the smallest thing went awry. It was a dangerous game, turning Rosier into a spy for their own agenda. But then again, Draco had experience with unforgivables, he was good at warping a mind to heed rules he made up. She’d seen it with Madam Rosmerta.

She trusted him. 

But why?

Where the _fuck_ did that come from? 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, if any are noticed, please let me know.  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> [Chapter word count: 10,800]


	6. Delinquency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Better strange than terrifying, I suppose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter word count: 7,400]

* * *

_9/15/44 _

_Diary,_

_She did not ask for my help._

_Rosier dosed that vermin with the Venomous Tentacular variation I brewed. The symptoms were just similar enough to give the witch the idea her Familiar had been attacked by the wretched plant. I was careful; it was to be perceived as an accident. Animals tend to wander into danger from time to time. That is no secret._

_I knocked on her door after Dippet dismissed me; she answered my questions much too easily to be lying, I think._

_‘Yeah; seemed like he ate a bad mouse so I dumped salt and water down his throat to make him throw up. Seems fine now that he’s thrown up. Pets, you know?’_

_She closed the door on me after that._

_Rosier is to be in the infirmary for the weekend after being attacked by an escaped Monster Book of Monsters in the library. How he managed that, I have no idea. I may need to rethink my use for him. If a book brought him to his knees, he may not be competent, though he_ _does_ _have an affinity for torture._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/17/44 _

_Diary,_

_My quest to find that wretched Devil’s Lettuce was fruitless. I should have known better than to expect some herb I’d never heard of before._

_They were talking about the_ _muggle plant._ _I do wonder how I could forget the symptoms of persistent marijuana use. The last roommate I had at Wool’s Orphanage was completely dependent on the stuff. I worry my time spent away from the ‘other world’ has stunted my ability to mesh between them both. I do not plan to go back to muggle London_ _ever again,_ _but honestly, why didn’t I put the pieces together? Rodolphus’ stupidity may be rubbing off on me. I fear for the day I become as ignorant as he. I blame_ _him_ _for this oversight. And Rosier. He must have failed to administer the poison in the correct dose because there is no way that Familiar of Hermione’s could have survived by merely ‘throwing up’ if the poison was correctly administered. I may try again. I have been thinking about it and that may be the only viable course of action._

 _I followed Hermione and that wizard she seems so taken by. They were in Hogsmeade the same as I, it can hardly be called spying if we ended up in the same shops. They don’t speak to each other very often, they seem to communicate with glares and eyerolls. I don’t understand it._ _I don’t understand them._ _The dark magic hanging about her has made me far more interested in her origins. I want to know the source of that power, what caused her magical core to be so tainted by darkness. It’s almost familiar._

 _When I tried to follow the wizard-Draco I believe his name was- to his lodging, I lost him. They took a detour through the forest and only Hermione came out._ _Maybe he lives in the woods,_ _I do not know. In light of Rosier’s recent failure, I’ve assigned both Lestrange and Abraxas to look into him. If they both fail, I will be forced to rethink who I have chosen for future plans._

_T.R._

* * *

**_Sunday, September 17th, 1944_ **

They had stolen all they needed from Hogsmeade early in the day. Hermione didn’t feel bad about it, though her apparent affinity for pickpocketing concerned her. She could never get away with such a thing before. Before _what,_ she had no idea anymore. She’d been noticing scars that hadn’t existed; they weren’t from the battle of Hogwarts or anything else she knew of. A part of her wondered where they came from, if they were even real, what caused them. Surely she had forgotten things. 

It was infuriating that she couldn’t remember. 

She’d told Draco all of this, having been rambling as they cut a path through the forbidden forest. He hated being there, thought it was stupid to be so careless as to enter a _known_ danger zone. He told her as much. She brushed it off, said that most of the creatures were harmless, peaceful even. He did not believe her. Their conversation had veered towards the visions of violence that had leaked through their mental bond. Hermione wanted to talk to him about them for some _ungodly_ reason. Didn’t she see he just wanted to walk in silence? Ignore his problems? Like the way he felt when it came to her- _that was a problem._ He couldn’t rationalize or interpret the feelings the witch evoked. He just knew they existed. 

“....What does it say about me? You know? I don’t understand why they keep happening. I told you I worry about becoming Bellatrix, maybe that’s it. What if I am?”

“Granger you don’t incite violence for the sake of violence like Bellatrix did. It’s okay to feel wrathful towards those who are deserving. It pays to manipulate those emotions to fit your needs.” If his past self could see him now; telling Hermione Granger is was _okay_ to think about murder and torture in excruciating detail. Encouraging it, even. If there was a God- _or Gods,_ they were laughing at him. 

“What needs?”

“Surviving.” It was a simple, honest answer. He found he didn’t like lying to her. 

Hermione’s steps faltered as she looked sidelong at him. She looked a sight in the baggy sweatshirt she wore-said it was more comfortable than the starched shirts of the 1944 Hogwarts uniform. It was almost a dress on her. She’d pulled it from her bottomless purse, saying if anyone had something to say about it, she’d hex their mouth shut; 40’s fashion be damned. 

“It’s still not normal.” 

“None of this is normal.” he corrected. “You called me your _pet_ two days ago.”

She made an annoyed noise. “Are you _ever_ going to let that go?”

“No,” he told her, sidestepping a gooseberry bush. 

“It’s called acting a part. I remember you saying I’d been doing a shit job of it. Now I’m doing _too well?”_ She scoffed. “It’s not like there was any other way to get Riddle to leave- aside from admitting we were onto him and threatening to kill his family or something.” she paused a moment. “But I think he’d be mad for the wrong reasons if we killed his family before he could.”

“Slow your jets, we aren’t killing anybody yet.”

“It’s _cool_ your jets.” She teased him as they walked. “Or did you mean ‘slow your roll’?”

“Neither make sense.” 

Hermione scoffed. “They make plenty of sense.” 

“Can we get back to talk of killing people? Because that’s a less loaded subject with you.” he eyed her, saw the way she smiled. “Discussing muggle idioms wasn’t on the agenda for today.”

“And what is? Plotting a murder?” 

“Obviously.”

Hermione laughed, ducking under a low hanging branch. “Speaking of… Riddle should be planning on killing the Gaunts to create another horcrux soon. I wonder what would happen if we stopped him, warned his grandparents about his plans.”

“Create a what?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t-what?” Hermione stopped walking, staring up at him. “You don’t know what a horcrux is?” 

“Am I supposed to?” he stilled and watched her, saw the confusion flicker across her features. “Why would he need to kill his blood relatives to make one?”

“A horcrux is a piece of your soul housed in an object. In order to split it, you have to commit a supreme act of evil.” she crossed her arms and continued her walking, forcing Draco to follow. “They’re the darkest magic I’ve come across. It’s how he managed to survive the night he tried to kill Harry. The more he did it, the less human he became…. Explains why he looks so different in our own time.”

“Why were you surprised I didn’t know what it was?” 

She paused but kept walking after a moment, as if caught off guard. “Your father was in possession of one- Riddle’s diary. He gave it to Ginny during her first year; she ended up possessed and opened the chamber of secrets.” Hermione hugged her arms tighter around herself. “I thought you’d know.”

With a half hearted scoff, he shook his head. “It’s not like we stayed up all night gossiping about our evil plans. He only called upon me when I was needed. When that happened, he didn’t speak so much as command.” he eyed her, needing to change the subject before they delved into deeper waters-more serious things. “How many are there?” 

“Eight.” she answered after a long while. “We destroyed most of them before the battle. There were only two left by the time the wards came down.” Her eyes were unfocused as she spoke. “Nagini and Harry were the last ones.”

Draco stopped walking, his mind working. “Potter?” 

“He was an accidental horcrux. The night Voldemort tried to kill Lily, he left a shard of his soul inside of Harry. We were banking on it to win. I don’t remember if it worked. Or if we even got to that point before ending up _here.”_

Draco’s mind conjured the memory of that day; Harry Potter being brought out of the forbidden forest in the arms of the groundskeeper, the chance to switch sides. _Sacrificing his wand._ “Potter killed him with my wand.” 

“What?” Hermione spun to look at him. “How do you know? Why would _your_ wand work?” 

He stared down at her a moment. “Disarming Dumbledore created some kind of bond between the Elder wand and mine. I remember giving it to him.” he reached into his pocket, felt the wood under his fingertips. “But that doesn’t explain how I have it now.” They were missing more time than they thought if he’d somehow gotten his wand back after the battle of Hogwarts. _It didn’t make sense._ Pieces were missing. 

“I remember seeing Hagrid bring Harry up from the forest but he was dead.” Hermione stated. “I don’t remember _that.”_ she glared up at him. “Why would I believe you? Maybe this was all your doing. Maybe you’re just trying to win me over by fucking with my head. Maybe we’re here because of you.” 

“What excuse would I have to deceive you?” He knew she had a point. It would make sense. He was the _only_ familiar face and she had no reason to be stuck with him, of all people. _No,_ he thought. _If I were a part of this, surely I would know._ It didn’t make sense. _Nothing made sense._ Draco was wandering through the forbidden forest with Hermione fucking Granger after stealing a bunch of shit from Hogsmeade. It seemed they dealt nonsense in spades now. 

Lifting her chin, Hermione met his eyes. “You tell me. Maybe this is all part of some plan to get me to trust you. _Maybe_ I’ve been dosed with some potion to make me hallucinate some elaborate situation to make me change my mind about you. To disclose secrets about the Order.” her tone was harsh but her eyes said otherwise. It was too late, _somehow it was too late._ She cared. She knew him. _Trusted him._ For some reason, the thought didn’t surprise him. It was like he already knew her feelings toward him. 

“I think we both know that’s not true.” he said, tone plain and pointed. “We know each other far too well.”

They’d been working together far too easily. It was like their positive interactions had been obliviated. _Were there even positive interactions?_ There had to be. _Had to be._

“You don’t think that by itself is suspicious?” she asked, still staring up at him. “We know things about each other we have no business knowing.”

He spoke low, watching her like he’d find answers to an equation hidden in her face. “It’s like you said. I think we’ve both forgotten something.” Nearly tripping over an unearthed root, he remembered himself, clearing his throat. “We have to get back before you’re missed. It’s no use talking ourselves in circles.”

“What’s there to forget?” Hermione stared up at him, the wind cutting through her clothes. “I’ve been thinking it over and I can’t come up with anything that’d make sense… Any reason for us to not hate each other after everything.”

“I’ve never hated you, Granger.”

“What?” she stared at him, eyebrows raised in confusion. That didn’t make much sense. He was a dickhead to her in school. Hell, he was a dickhead to her _now._ Draco Malfoy was a dickhead, she knew that fact to be as true as the sky being the color blue. 

Draco sighed, looking pained. “I don’t hate you.”

“I heard you, I only said that because I was surprised.” 

With a scoff, he turned back towards the castle. “Let’s go.” Draco wasn’t going to unpack that just yet because even _he_ didn’t even understand it. 

As she trailed behind him, Hermione wondered how she’d managed to enter this _pas de deux_ with Draco. The relationship between them seemed complicated and much too advanced to be the product of her sharing a dorm room with the man for half a month. _Was that her evidence?_ The fact that they both seemed too comfortable with each other? It was a weak case. Was there even a case or was she over-analyzing this? She was missing pieces, missing information. Missing memories of interactions. Was it even a relationship? No. A situationship. That’s what this was. 

Something was absent, a vital piece to the puzzle. 

For instance, it hadn’t immediately occurred to her that Draco had tortured Rosier. 

Yes, she’d seen the burns, treated them, helped hide the evidence left in the room but it hadn’t completely hit her yet. Draco Malfoy had tortured and imperiused a man. -Granted it was partially self defense; Rosier _was_ there to poison and crucio Draco, even kidnapping him, but it should have bothered her that he went farther than defending himself, right? 

Right? 

_So why didn’t it?_

Why did the fact that he’d taken to _physically_ hurting a man not bother her? She hadn’t even thought about the morality of it all when she’d walked into that classroom and noticed the aftermath. She’d been worried about him, about cleaning up, about not being caught. She’d acted almost robotic, as if this kind of thing happened all the time; hiding evidence and making sure Draco wasn’t hurt. Hermione had been worried-far too worried when he pulled her into the classroom covered in blood. She didn’t care about the how or who, only that it wasn’t him that was bleeding. 

It was even more vexing that he’d chosen to use the letter opener. Why not use a spell? Why use his hands to do the work when magic was available? No one else she knew of in the wizarding world had used an everyday object while doling out punishment. Not even Bellatrix; the witch had used a cursed blade, it wasn’t just a run of the mill kitchen knife. 

The letter opener was a weapon of circumstance, but Draco had his wand. He’d used it in conjunction with the damned letter opener. Why not just use a spell for all of it? Why get his hands dirty with the work? Magic was a far cleaner means of torture. Hermione knew this to be fact. Crucio left no outward damage; there was no blood, no charred skin, nothing. The lasting effects were internal. It was clean, proper. 

Was that why? Was it some kind of twisted sense of right and wrong for him? 

She’d have to ask when the time was right. She couldn’t just up and say _‘hey why’d you opt to forgo magic when you tortured information out of Rosier?’_ It wouldn’t bode well for her. He’d either shut down or give her the true answer. 

She didn’t know what she wanted more: answers or ignorance. 

* * *

**_Monday, September 18th, 1944_ **

Classes weren’t challenging when you had two people working together on assignments. Hermione let Draco take the lead on the potions and charms essays she’d been assigned. He’d been second only to _her_ in their class so she didn’t have to worry about double checking the work. Even with them being stuck in the 1940’s, Hermione was insistent her grades would not slip. If they were in imminent danger, sure, she’d skive off her homework but they had yet to find any kind of clue hinting at what the fuck was going on. So she justified it by saying it was a way to keep up appearances. 

They both found comfort in the ease of falling into a routine. Classes were simple, expected, easy. It gave them something to do, something to focus on other than the shitstorm that was their current situation. They could put their minds on autopilot and just stop thinking. 

In an effort to blend in, Hermione took to spending time in the Slytherin common room after dinner by herself. Draco stayed in the dorm room on his own, both of them agreeing that they would do well to spend _some_ time apart. It was just another part of the odd routine they’d developed. 

Allison and Elizabeth were happy to allow Hermione into their _study club._ Not that she really needed it. In all honesty, the girls didn’t seem to need it either, taking to gossipping instead of working on homework. It worked out well for Hermione, as she found out plenty of information she would have otherwise missed. _Like Cygnus’ boasting about his sexual conquests with Allison and her dumping him over it._ Most of the things she found out were useless, but it was strange realizing that they were only teenagers; Hermione knew what these people would become. They were gossiping about boys and house drama instead of plans of world domination. _It was weird._

It came out that Elizabeth Nott was of the _lesbian persuasion_ -the girl’s own words. When Hermione asked about it through the bond they’d created, Draco basically told her ‘ _yeah, Theo’s dad was adopted_ ’. When she asked how that worked with the family’s standing within the uppity pureblood customs, Draco had simply said ‘ _we don’t talk about it._ ’ She stopped wondering about it because frankly, it wasn’t pertinent to their current situation. It was a puzzle for another time. Hopefully her own. If she ever got back to it. 

“So, Granger, got your eye on anybody?” Allison was sprawled across the leather ottoman in front of the fire, twirling her hair around her finger. “Heard rumors about you having a wizard waiting for you in Hogsmeade.” 

Elizabeth sat up, having been laying across the floor, drawing an animal with wings and antlers on her essay’s margins. “A _wizard_ huh?” she raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Tell us more.” 

Allison swatted at her fellow Slytherin, “oh like you care-you’ve been following that McGonagall witch all over the castle like a lost puppy.”

“Hey, just because I’m not buying what they’re selling doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the merchandise.” Elizabeth smirked. “Besides, I think Minerva might be coming around.” Hermione schooled her expression, trying not to react to her _friend_ having a crush on her favorite professor. “So Granger, let’s hear it then. Tell us about your mysterious stranger.” 

“Who told you about him?” she needed to know who was running the rumor mill. 

Allison scoffed. “We hear all kinds of things when no one’s paying attention. You had Riddle plenty wound up about it.” at Hermione’s confused expression, the witch continued. “He’s got Lestrange and Abraxas looking into him you know. Guy doesn’t like not knowing things.” 

That was what they had planned for. Hermione knew that if Riddle went looking for Draco, he wouldn’t find him, but the information still bothered her. She didn’t want Riddle looking into Draco. Didn’t want his attention anywhere _near_ Draco. Shrugging to make herself seem indifferent, Hermione leaned back on the couch. “He’s not going to find much. We’re just friends.”

“Don’t let Cygnus hear you saying that, he’s been talking about putting the moves on you since you showed up here.” 

It was becoming harder and harder to act unphased with all the information being thrown at her. “Oh, that’s just _great…”_ she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Whoever shall I choose?” she asked in a mocking voice, about to busy herself with her essay once more.

“The hotter one. Gotta say your mystery man’s looking kinda weak compared to Cygnus-I mean, it’s like he’s carved from marble or something.” Allison sighed wistfully, staring across the room at the very man she’d just complimented-the boys were playing wizard’s chess in a quiet corner. “I know he’s an ass, but I just can’t help myself.” 

Hermione reread the same sentence to keep from laughing at the oddity of the situation. _Oh, who to choose, Draco or his teenaged grandfather?_ What a dilemma. 

Allison kept going, almost in a dreamlike state. “He’s not _always_ bad, he’s just so…” an accusing look was sent towards the unsuspecting wizard. _“Talkative._ I mean he went and told _everyone_ what we did; even Riddle, which just freaks me out, him knowing things like that. I think he might be a eunuch or something the way he’s ignored girls the past seven years.” The Slytherin’s eyes landed on Hermione. “But your being here changed that for some reason. I hear him ranting about you sometimes. What’d you do to him?” the tone turned accusatory, suspicious.

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything!” Hermione exclaimed, her reaction genuine. _Riddle was openly talking about her?_ That wasn’t good. He’d already sent Rosier after her for something she didn’t even know she did. Now this? Gossip? _About her?_

Allison shrugged, leaned back on the ottoman. “If he weren’t such a weirdo I’d go for it. But I don’t trust him. He _never_ blinks! Have you ever noticed that?” 

Not knowing what to say, Hermione stayed silent. The information was odd and left her deeply unnerved. She couldn’t even laugh at her friend calling the future dark lord a eunuch. _And that was funny!_

Elizabeth spoke before Hermione had to come up with a reply, thank god. “You know, I always _think_ I want to engage in boytalk, but it just backfires every single time.” the witch pulled a jar from her bag, raising her eyebrows. “I nicked some of Beery’s stash, you wanna go to our room?” Elizabeth inclined her head towards Allison and then the hallway that led to the dormrooms. 

Allison looked around before shoving the jar back into Elizabeth’s bag. “Are you stupid? We’re going to get caught if you just whip it out in front of everyone!” she whispered, shaking her head. 

Appearing nonplussed, Elizabeth turned back to Hermione. “So Granger, you in?” 

It was a bad idea. 

A very bad one. 

This was not like her. 

It was a Monday night, for fuck’s sake! 

Hermione had made the weak justification that she could learn something from Elizabeth or Allison about the inner workings of Slytherin if they were high. Their inhibitions would slip, they’d say something they shouldn’t. 

Hermione wasn’t a stranger to weed, marijuana, devil’s lettuce-whatever you wanted to call it, but it’d been a while. Her cousins from out of town hadn’t visited since before her sixth year and those boring family reunions were the only times she actually partook in teenage delinquency. Once or twice a year didn’t make her out to be some kind of connoisseur. But it did give her some idea of how to act. If her cousins could see her now, they’d be proud, surely. Probably. _Maybe._

She was not high. 

She was spying. Acting a part. Trying to, anyway. 

Her plan for reconnaissance went out the window as soon as Elizabeth started reenacting a rendition of Dippet’s speech from earlier in the morning, putting the wrong emphasis on every word and staggering about the room with an imaginary cane. Allison chimed in every once in a while, heckling her roommate. Hermione was laughing so hard she was in tears. She didn’t need to actually be high for it to be funny. 

Hermione Granger had always been one of those people that laughed too much while intoxicated in any kind of way. She’d laugh and start connecting things that weren’t there. Her mind moved too fast, nonsensical in the way it drew parallels between things. It was hard to tell if she was developing some kind of contact high, it could have been some placebo effect type thing since Allison and Elizabeth were off their asses. Maybe their careless demeanor was contagious. 

It was late, past midnight. 

On a Monday. 

She’d never be able to get up for class and be a fully functioning person. In the name of getting information, she sacrificed her educational standing-just for the time being. It was one time. Besides, Draco had finished his half of the assignments even after complaining about their uselessness. That by itself was an odd thought to have, and she pushed it away, not wanting to accidentally say something she shouldn’t. These people were friends, sure, but not to be trusted. _No one could be trusted._ She knew that Elizabeth would be fairly harmless in the future, but if Allison married into the Goyle family sometime soon, she _could_ be as twisted as the rest of them. 

Hermione knew she always talked too much while under the influence, but faking it meant the words didn’t want to come. But that wasn’t a bad thing. She was here to do reconnaissance, she wasn’t even high. Not even close, compared to her companions. Elizabeth was rifling through her trunk looking for something while Allison was formulating some kind of plan to make Cygnus suffer for telling Riddle about this thing she did with her mouth and Hermione wished she was in bed, asleep. 

Part of her wished she _was_ high, because it seemed her little spy mission was proving to be a bust. It was mostly useless conversation, innocent stories from their earlier school years she didn’t care to remember. Allison was on a trip down memory lane, it seemed. 

“...found them all holed up in the girl’s bathroom having some meeting, it was like a week after that Myrtle girl got ganked-Oh, Granger! You hear about that?” 

Meeting Allison Parkinson’s eyes, Hermione shook her head, playing dumb. She knew, but she wasn’t going to let on. “No, hear about what?” 

Rubbing her hands together, the witch grinned. “So last year we had a third year Ravenclaw girl found dead in the bathroom on the second floor. ‘Fore that, all kinds of kids were getting petrified by some kind of creature. No one saw it, but Elizabeth’s half convinced it wasn’t that spider they blamed it all on.” leaning closer, her voice was a hushed whisper. “I think Riddle knows something about it. He spends too much time in the girl’s bathroom-even before that girl died in there.” 

“Seriously?” Hermione knew she was laying it on thick, but this was how the gossip in Gryffindor tower always went-she’d never partook in Lavender’s tales, but she’d witnessed enough to know how to act. “Is that the hangout spot now? What do you think did it?” 

Elizabeth shrugged in, a bag of chips rustling as she moved to a sitting position on the floor. “You ask me, I think it was a snake of some kind. You know Medusa? In lore, she turned people to stone with just a look. I think the legend came from a magical serpent-probably the same one that killed Myrtle and petrified the others.” 

It hurt, having to bite her tongue to keep from telling Elizabeth that she was right. The witch was far smarter than she let on. Hermione had underestimated her for some reason, but now she was seeing her for who she really was-an ally. Of sorts. Maybe. Possibly. A valuable associate at the very least. Someone well versed in connecting the dots between seemingly unrelated things. 

“Dippet almost sent us all home early after Myrtle died; there was even talk of closing the school completely. Between that and the muggle war, not many of us came back this year.” Allison added, eyeing a photo on her nightstand. She seemed to remember herself, rearranging her hair and smiling at Hermione. “Weird though, right? That Riddle likes to have meetings in the same place someone died?”

“Yeah. Weird.” said Hermione. “Any idea what he does in there?” 

Scoffing, Elizabeth rustled through her bag of chips. “Unless he’s extremely constipated, it’s probably nothing good. Every Wednesday they’re _all_ in there. They usually alternate who watches the door- last week it was Rosier.” 

The conversation slowly devolved into useless information once again, and Hermione stopped paying attention, getting lost in her thoughts. She knew the Chamber of Secrets was in the second floor girl’s bathroom, but would Riddle allow his underlings down there? Would he be so careless to expose his meeting place? If Elizabeth and Allison noticed, surely others had as well. She could always corner Rosier and ask him-with him being imperiused, he would have to answer honestly, it was part of the rules Draco had in place. Evan Rosier would have to divulge the details of the meetings, but did Hermione _want_ to know? Was it important? Her only interest was getting back home, out of this mess; not stopping the Dark Lord. If she tried to do that, she could offset the timeline and stop people from being born, warping everything beyond recognition. If she didn’t die trying to kill him, she would have another unfamiliar world to go back to. Quantum entanglement gave her a headache.

But was _that_ what was going on? _Had they gone back in time?_ There were still inconsistencies rampant around the castle, _in her life._ Like hers and Draco’s shared lack of memories, the ghosts knowing things they shouldn’t-there was plenty to be suspicious of. Her theory that this was some kind of nightmare was still a prominent one that she’d tried researching, but Hermione hadn’t been very successful in the library. Sooner or later, she’d have to sneak into the restricted section-maybe while Riddle was at his Wednesday meeting so he wouldn’t be patrolling the halls. _He was still head boy after all._ Whoever let that happen was an idiot. Probably Dippet. The man was clearly under the teenage Dark Lord’s spell.

When Allison mentioned the time in the midst of an unimportant conversation, Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin. It was far too late for her to be awake. Not if the conversation had veered away from details of a useful nature. 

The two girls bid Hermione goodnight in the hallway. 

Hermione _planned_ to walk the four feet to her own room, _planned_ to unward her door just enough to slip inside and go to bed, but the universe had other ideas. She heard footsteps, a slight slosh to the footfalls, like the person’s shoes were soaked through.

Her room was right there. _Right there_ but Riddle was walking towards her and she wanted to scream. _Where had he even come from?_ It was damn near two in the morning! Was he waiting up for her? Was he planning, plotting, scheming like the little overlord he was? What the fuck. _What. The. Fuck._

Why were his shoes wet?

The chamber, obviously. _Obviously._ Maybe. 

“Hermione.” 

Her hand stilled on the doorknob as she turned to face him. 

“Riddle.” she kept her tone dry, free of emotion. “It’s two in the morning.” she gazed up at him, her wand in the hand that held the doorknob; it was for easy access, seemingly innocent. “What do you want?” 

“I’ve been tasked to look into the disappearance of Professor Beery’s medication, I was wondering if you knew anything about that?”

“Nope.” she lied easily. “Do I _seem_ like the type to get mixed up in petty theft?” 

Riddle’s eyes were black in the dim light; he looked like a haunt resurrected, all shadows and harsh edges. “I was just doing my duty.” he glanced past Hermione, down the corridor. “Coming back from somewhere?” 

“Thought I left a book in the common room.” she lied. What was she supposed to say? _Oh yeah, I was just doing some recon on your standing at the school- learned about your apparent affinity for the girl’s bathroom._

One dark eyebrow rose. “I didn’t see you there.” 

“Must have just missed each other.”

He didn’t look convinced. 

It was then she felt an unwelcome presence in her mind, tendrils of smoke sneaking past walls, leaching into her head. Instead of locking him out completely, she let him in, occluding anything incriminating. Well, no, that was a lie. She forced the visions of Fenrir Greyback’s slanted form lurching towards her from the darkness of a corridor, _blood tar black all over the walls, the floor, his clothes. Flayed skin, shining in the moonlight. Rotten teeth gnashing together with an awful grinding sound._

Hermione didn’t know why she did it. Didn’t know what possessed her to do it, but she chose to let him see what she was capable of, purposely forcing violence to the forefront of her mind. When Riddle’s brow furrowed in surprise, she glared up at him, anger clear across her features. “You know, I did tell you to stay out of my head, Riddle.” 

The threat seemed to egg him on, and she watched him draw himself up to his full height, try to tower over her, intimidate her. “And what are you going to do about it, _witch?”_ his tone was low, cruel. 

Hermione’s hand gripped the door. He was still in her head, still digging for information through legilimency. On a whim, she forced the memories of the cruciatus curse past her occlumency walls. She knew he’d be caught off guard again, wouldn’t expect her to force a physical sensation through to his own mind. She didn’t need to be a legilimens to get into his head if he was already in. It was careless, stupid to play this hand, but she did it anyway. She was getting fed up with his half assed games. _Honestly, is that all he’s going to do?_ _Ask me useless questions and accost me in the hallways?_ Kind of disappointing for an aspiring Dark Lord. 

His jaw clenched as he stared down at her, retreating from her mind. “Where did you learn that?” 

She knew he was feeling phantom pains of the cruciatus all over his body. Visual memory wasn’t weak, but muscle memory-well that was stronger. 

“You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” she sneered, feeling far too bold. “Been digging around in my head for something; well that’s _something_.” she’d used the same methodology she’d learned for the bond with Draco. It was surprisingly easy, figuring out how to project things into people’s minds if there was some kind of connection already there. 

“Who-” 

“That’s none of your business, Riddle.” she cut him off, almost smiled at the look on his face. “Try some shit like that again and you won’t be getting _memories.”_

With that, she forced her door shut, locking and warding it to high heaven, leaning back against it as if that would stop Tom Riddle from bursting inside if he decided to try to come after her. 

It was stupid, doing that. But he’d brought something dark from within her-some kind of innate need to just… bother him. Fuck with him. Play with him like a marionette puppet. She didn’t think she was pulling any of Riddle’s strings by any means, but she was getting to him. It wasn’t smart. She should have just played the part of an innocent transfer student from Durmstrang whose life was torn apart by world war two. Should have, _but didn’t._

After calming down, Hermione looked around the dorm room. Draco looked to be asleep, wrapped in the duvet that covered her bed. It _was_ two in the morning after all. 

The exhaustion hit her then, the events of the day catching up to her now that she didn’t have to pretend to be anything, anyone else. She didn’t really care that Draco was in her bed. Hermione was far too tired to start bickering with him-and the one thing she’d learned about him above all else, was that Draco Malfoy did not like to be woken up. At all. _Ever._ So she let sleeping dogs lie; pun intended. Draco would probably strangle her if she said that in front of him. He’d grown tired of the puns after the first three times. 

Hermione changed out of her school uniform and collapsed into bed. There was enough space between them that she didn’t have to worry too much about the situation. She was far too tired to be awkward about sleeping arrangements.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asked in a drawl, not bothering to look at her in the darkness of the room. 

“Sorry mother.” Hermione’s voice was muffled by the blanket she’d face planted into. “You can ground me later.” she’d assumed he’d been asleep the whole time. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Flipping onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. “Don’t tell me you never got grounded as a kid.” 

“I was punished as a child, if that’s what you’re getting at.” he sighed, his voice blending with the otherwise silent room. “That was stupid, the stunt you pulled with Riddle.”

“I know.” 

“Why do it then?” 

Exasperated, her tone rose with ire. “I don’t know! He just irks me. -Pisses me off.”

With a scoff, Draco shook his head. “You can’t do that again. You and I both know that what you just did isn’t going to end well.”

“He’s just so… _annoying!_ ” she pulled a blanket over herself. “Never in my life would I have thought he’d be like _that,_ of all the things. He’s really needy as a teenager, you realize that? It’s like he can’t stand to not be the center of attention. If I was going to psychoanalyze him, I’d say he’s got some kind of narcissistic personality disorder, but I don’t think he even _has_ a personality.” 

“You seem more manic than usual.” 

“I _feel_ more manic than usual.” 

“Well stop it.” She could see him turn to look at her, his eyes shining in the dim light. “If you lose your head we don’t make it out of this. -Whatever _this_ is. So keep it together.” he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “And that bond you created is giving me a headache.”

“Why?” she brushed her hair out of her face as she looked at him, scrutinizing his features, watching for any signs of real pain. “What’s it doing?” 

“I have yet to hear an actual thought from you since you came back. All I’m getting is…” he gestured to his head. “A fizzing noise. And colors.”

“I might be a _teensy_ bit high. Maybe. Probably.” Hermione bit back a laugh. It wasn’t until after she’d left the girls’ dorm room that she’d noticed how heavily the smoke hung in the air. A contact high wasn’t out of the question. “Gives a whole new meaning to the commercials.” 

He fixed her with a flat stare, uncomprehending. 

“Oh come on!” she exclaimed. _“‘This is your brain on drugs?’”_ she’d taken on a mocking teleprompter voice for the imitation. “I swear, you’ve lived under a rock your entire life. I bet you don’t even know what Tetris is.”

“You switch between being mental breakdowns and hilarity far too easily.” he muttered, turning away from her to go back to sleep-or fake sleep.

“They’re the same thing.” she told him. “Besides, I’m half convinced this is the strangest dream I’ve ever had. It’s starting to seem like the only thing that makes any sense-all this being in my head, y’know?” 

“Better strange than terrifying, I suppose.” 

Hermione sighed. “I guess.” she chose to change the subject, as the current one hurt to think about. “Apparently Riddle has meetings with his fanclub on Wednesday in the second floor girl’s bathroom. We might have to ask Rosier about what happens, but I don’t even know if I _want_ to know.” 

“If he’s suspicious of you, I think it best we know what he’s planning.” Draco muttered, his voice muffled through the blanket he’d pulled over his head. “If he tries to poison me again I won’t be happy.” 

“Maybe I’ll be next.” she mused. “He’s got Rodolphus and Abraxas watching you in Hogsmeade. Elizabeth said that Riddle’s weirdly interested in the two of us for some reason.” she turned to look at Draco. “She’s smart-and gay. Has a crush on McGonagall, I think they’d be good together.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What did you just say?” 

“Theo’s grandmother has a crush on our transfiguration professor. I think it’s a good match. I always wondered about McGonagall-she never did marry. There were rumors in Gryffindor about her and Filch being something but I never believed them.”

“Why are you suddenly keen on the sexual transgressions of our professors?” 

She shrugged. “There’s nothing else to do. I mean look at where we are! What we’re doing! The whole situation is insane, why not make it _more_ insane?” she stopped for a moment, an idea coming to her. “Did you guys have betting pools in Slytherin about Snape? We did.” 

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Oh _excuse me,_ won’t happen again, _your highness.”_ Hermione teased, falling silent a moment before charging into another subject to ramble about. “How come there’s no wizard monarchy? I would have expected that for some reason. Aside from you purebloods, but I mean you guys don’t have a royal hierarchy, you’re all the same level- kind of. I think. Isn’t that weird?” she kept going. _“I_ think it’s weird. Don’t you realize how _weird_ the wizarding world is? I mean your guys’ idea of formal wear is basically a bathrobe with extra needlework. _And you think muggles are odd?”_

One side of Draco’s mouth curled upward, the beginnings of a smile. “Where did _that_ come from?” 

“I haven’t slept. These things happen. And I might be a little high. It’s hard to tell.” she really didn’t know where it was coming from, but now it was out there in the world and she couldn’t take it back. 

“I would think that you’d be barely functioning.” he replied, his voice absent of the heat his jibes usually had. 

“No, it’s the opposite. I start thinking _too_ much.” she stared at the ceiling, at the green velvet draped over the bedposts. “...But do you? Realize how weird the wizarding world is?” 

“I grew up with it, Granger. It’s my own version of normal. I learned how to ride a broom while you learned how to ride a bike. I suppose that’s just the way things are.” Draco was humoring her, she knew. But his willingness to answer without insulting muggles made her smile. _The bar is on the ground._ She reminded herself. _Why did she even need to remind herself of these things?_

“Can you even ride a bike?”

“You can’t ride a broom.” he accused. 

Hermione shook her head. “I can, _terribly.”_ she scoffed to herself. “You can’t ride a bike-that almost sounds illegal.” 

“I never said that.” 

“You didn’t have to!” she exclaimed to the room, keeping from looking at him-because if she did, she’d start laughing, because he was probably pissed off and glaring right now. 

“Go to bed.” he muttered, turning

“You’re _in_ my bed.” 

“So I am.” he stated, tone dry. “Do you want me to transfigure my own, oh Queen?” Draco’s tone was plain, but Hermione appreciated the joke all the same. His being there didn’t bother her. She was far too tired to think about _why_ it didn’t bother her, or why it _should._ All she knew was that she was tired and wanted to go the fuck to sleep. 

“If you shut up, you can stay.” 

“You’re the one that woke me up and started berating me with your incessant rambling.” 

“Well you were in _my_ bed.” she turned to her side, facing away from him. “Now shut up before I kick your ass.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, if any are noticed, please let me know.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated y'all! 
> 
> [Chapter word count: 7,400]
> 
> Is it a shitty filler chapter? Yes.  
> Will the next one be an angsty disaster? Maybe.  
> Next update will be posted before the end of the year if everything goes well.


	7. Intimidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You say that as if she’s mine.”  
> “Isn’t she?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter word count: 7,100]

* * *

_9/19/44_

_Diary,_

_I have found that my approach to the witch has been all wrong._

_She has an air of violence about her, it draws me in and makes me forget myself. My curiosity has been misguided before, but now I have a true reason to get closer to the witch. What she showed me-it was a blatant display of brutality. I feel she_ _knows_ _that her actions would only draw me in. Something tells me she knows about me, about what I have done, what I am capable of. If that is the case, she must be dealt with; one way or another._

_I will be successful this time. I will stay vigilant._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/20/44_

_Diary,_

_Cygnus has failed._

_I will have to do it myself._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/21/44_

_Diary,_

_She is now a proven asset._

_To what means, I do not yet know._

_T.R._

* * *

**_Tuesday, September 19th, 1944_ **

Monday night was a mistake. 

That’s what it was. 

Hermione woke up ten minutes before her first class-but only because of Draco. 

“What the _fuck_ did you do that for?” 

He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, feigning innocence like he hadn’t just woken her up by spelling ice cold water on her. “Do _what?_ Wake you up for the classes you insist on going to in order to keep up appearances?” Hermione thought he looked far too smug. “Maybe you should have gone to sleep at a decent time.” he almost sounded like an aggrieved parent. 

“Well maybe you can go play in Gryffindor tower and try to blend in. See how you like it.”

“Maybe I will.”

The thought made her laugh. She’d never seen him in colors outside of green, blue, and shades of grey that leaned towards black. Gryffindor Red would clash with every part of him, from his personality to his pale skin. 

* * *

**_Wednesday, September 20th, 1944_ **

She couldn’t trust anyone. She was surrounded by serpents. The only lion in the pit. 

_Was she even a lion anymore?_

Hermione hadn’t felt like a Gryffindor in a long while, the honesty and bravery her house boasted almost forgotten, replaced by deceit and sleight of hand. Her motives had changed to meet her own needs instead of the greater good. She _could_ kill Riddle before he became Voldemort, but that left the question- _what would happen?_ Would she wake up in her own time? Would she be stuck there forever? Was she even _in_ the past? What would happen to her? _What would happen to Draco?_ She noticed she was only selfless when it came to him anymore. It was odd, that realization. 

She blamed it on mutual Stockholm Syndrome. 

Had to be _that._ Couldn’t be anything else. No way in hell was she more than acquaintances with the pureblood douchebag. No, just- _no._ Hermione didn’t know why she cared about him, why she wanted him around. It didn’t make any sense. 

She wasn’t just using him as part of a plan; she needed him for more than the alliance they’d forged. Hermione itched to call their _partnership_ the product of a shitty situation and forced interactions, but it wasn’t. He brought some level of normalcy to her life. The way they bickered and worked together on things-it was familiar. Comforting. 

But how? _Why?_ It didn’t make sense. 

Sure, they’d hated each other in school and all that shit, but whatever was between them was different than the rivalry they had before. 

She knew it could be related to their apparent memory loss, which only made everything more confusing. It meant something had happened to make her trust him, and vice versa. From her time researching memory spells for her parents, Hermione knew it was nearly impossible to completely erase the emotional aspect of a memory. 

Take her parents, for instance. She had to ship them off to Australia with no idea they had a daughter. If Hermione were to walk into their lives, that familial love and affection would still be there, but the Doctors Granger wouldn’t know why. Her presence would still incite the same emotional response. Magic couldn’t overwrite that kind of thing, no matter the spell.

It’s the reason why _obliviate_ only worked so well. It worked the same way with trauma; if you were to obliviate a traumatic event from a muggle’s mind, they would remain uneasy around things connected to the event but never remember why. 

So where the fuck did that trust in Draco come from? What had caused it? 

It didn’t make sense that they were anything other than enemies turned people-slightly-tolerant-of-each-other. It was the one thing in all of this that made the _least_ sense. Hermione could believe that somehow, they were in 1944; she couldn’t believe that she and Draco had somehow gotten over their issues with each other. 

The revelation made it hard to focus on the things at hand. Like finding out if Riddle was planning to do anything else untoward to Hermione or Draco. Like cornering their imperiused wizard to ask. 

Rosier kept to himself-a quiet shadow on the wall. Hermione noticed he kept close to the others, never straying far enough for her to pull him aside to talk without drawing suspicion. There was always someone closeby, someone that would wonder what they had spoken about. 

Normally, she would make up some excuse involving classes or homework and drag him away, but Rosier had proved to be a terrible liar after blaming his stay in the infirmary on a rogue Book of Monsters. If he was questioned about their conversation, Hermione feared what he would say-not because it was threatening, but because he was a shit liar. Did he even realize that the wounds on his leg were obviously from an _animal_ and not a sentient book? Literally anything else would have made more sense. They _were_ at Hogwarts after all; the school had plenty of dangerous shit that wasn’t afraid to bite. 

Including Draco. 

She hadn’t let him live that down. 

**“I don’t know what else you expected me to do.”** he forced the words through the bond, his tone annoyed as ever. 

Walking down the corridor from Slughorn’s potions class, Hermione stared straight ahead as opposed to looking down at the animagus fox. **“Anything else. You’re the one that bit him. Maybe that’s why I can’t get near him.”** They’d been following Rosier all morning with no luck. 

**“Or maybe you aren’t trying hard enough.”**

**“You think you could do any better? Wanna try to bite him again? We could get him alone in the infirmary.”**

**“I’d rather die, thanks.”**

Hermione scoffed aloud and ignored the nameless Ravenclaw that looked at her strangely as she passed by. She’d been doing a lot of that lately, ignoring people and their attempts at weak niceties or anything else, for that matter. **“Yes, you’d prefer a letter opener do the work, right?”**

Instead of responding, Draco only sent a feeling of indignation through the bond, the emotions clouding her own mind enough that she couldn’t draw the line where his ended and hers began. She didn’t know how he figured out how to do it, but he refused to teach her. 

Shame, she could have forced him into being in a good mood for once. 

-But then again, maybe that’s why he refused. Hermione was fairly predictable in his eyes. Draco had told her as much. 

The bastard. 

Hermione met with Allison and Elizabeth at the entrance to the great hall for lunch like every other day. She’d taken to spending half the lunch periods ‘studying’ with her fellow Slytherins and the other half in her room actually eating. It wasn’t hard to shrink down a few dinner rolls or apples-which Draco was far too fond of. It had to be that way, since he refused her table scraps idea. _Again._

It was meatloaf day and Hermione noticed Riddle was far too early to the hall compared to his fashionably late entrance every other day. If she knew better, she’d say the Dark Lord had some odd propensity for ground beef and cornflakes baked into the shape of a loaf of bread. As if she needed _another_ reason to call him evil. 

Draco hung back, acting aloof as ever as he took up sitting somewhere that no one would manage to step on him-that usually pissed him off, said it was a downside to his animagus form. Hermione thought it was a good thing-the ability to walk unseen amongst a room full of people. Draco said it was tiring work; keeping from getting trampled. 

As she made her way to the Slytherin table, she eyed the food offered for the day. **“What do you want me to bring back?”** The bond seemed to work over any distance, not that she’d ever been that far from Draco. She likened it to a muggle phone-but _secret._

 **“Prime rib would be nice.”** Came the reply. 

Hermione knew he could see plain as day that the kitchens hadn’t gone out of their way to prepare anything of the sort. **“I’m going to beat you to death with a fucking rock.”**

**“Is that any different than a normal rock?”**

**“Fine then, I’m going to beat you to death with a** **_normal_ ** **rock.”**

**“Always so angry, you should see a mind healer for that.”**

Sitting down at the table next to Allison and across from Rodolphus, Hermione kept from glaring across the room at Draco’s lone form. **“If you don’t pick something for me to steal I’m asking the house elves for dog food.”**

**“Then I’ll starve.”**

Pausing in the midst of shrinking down apples and oranges, she almost shook her head. **“Have you always been this dramatic?”** she pushed it through the bond with a teasing tone, eyeing Draco’s animagus form sitting alone at the back of the room next to the doors. **“There’s meatloaf, do you want that?”** she didn’t want to touch the stuff, but she figured she might as well ask.

 **“Merlin no, that’s all we ate at the manor while he was living there. Made the elves follow a recipe and everything. If I ever eat that garbage again I** **_will_ ** **die.”**

Hermione chanced a glance at Riddle. He’d served himself three slices of the dish and looked far too pleased compared to his usual blank expression. _“I think he_ likes _it.”_ She didn’t have Riddle’s attention at the moment, so he wasn’t trying any more of that legilimency bullshit. He was completely oblivious to the telepathic conversation going on between Hermione and her ‘Familiar’ across the room. 

**“Are you going into the auror program with those observation skills? You don’t miss a thing.”** came Draco’s dry response. **“I’ll eat anything but the dreaded meatloaf.”** he sounded resigned. 

Pocketing the fruit she’d shrunk down, Hermione went about transfiguring something to put the other things into. Oh how she missed tupperware. The wizarding world was lacking in that department. They had plenty of packaged stolen food in their dorm room, but Hermione and Draco both preferred the hot meals the kitchens served. 

Cygnus Black’s voice was the one that reminded her she was surrounded by the enemy. Or future enemy. Whichever. “Hermione, were you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” He took the open seat on her left, across from Rosier. 

It was hard to act like he hadn’t just caught her doing something she shouldn’t have-she was in the midst of stealing food from the great hall to sneak back to her room to feed the boy she’d hidden in her living quarters. Her old self would be appalled at the blatant rule-breaking. 

“I was.” Hermione replied, quickly pocketing the miniaturized food. “Why?” 

“I wanted to ask if you’d like to accompany me to Madam Puddifoot’s for tea.” 

There was that word again. _Accompany._ Hermione didn’t realize how much she hated it until Riddle started insisting he accompany her to and from places in the name of chivalry. _Oh how she hated good old-fashioned chivalry._

It was in the midst of her mental dilemma with a mere _word_ that she realized what Cygnus had just said. About tea. At Madam Puddifoot’s. The place where you went on dates. What the fuck. “Tea?” she repeated, “With you?” 

“Yes.” He said, mouth curving with a grin. “Tea. With me.” 

She searched for some way to let him down easy-or something. He’d been acting strangely towards her, asking to study alone and all kinds of other shit. She came up with no real reason other than a flat ‘no’. “I can’t.” Hermione finally said.

“Another time, then?” 

“I don’t think so.” She was pulling the bitch card. She had no problem with that card. It was a fun card to pull. They thought her far too soft. Hermione Granger was not _soft._ She was _nice,_ but not _soft._

Cygnus raised an eyebrow. “Can I ask why?” 

“Girl code.” Hermione replied, remembering Allison’s pining over the man. “And I’m not looking for anything but an education here.” Another blatant lie but she’d grown quite good at deception. 

Rodolphus butted in, his tone knowing. “Right, because you’re looking in _Hogsmeade._ Separation of church and state, I see.” Hermione wondered if he was always this strange. The 40’s had a different linguistic style than the 90’s, but Rodolphus Lestrange spoke as if he had a few screws loose with the way he only made _some_ sense.

“Ah…” Cygnus sounded fine for having just been rejected. “So you’ve a wizard in Hogsmeade?”

“Something like that.” 

“So there’s no chance you’d humor me anyway?” Cygnus persisted, looking half hopeful.

Eyeing the witch on her right, Hermione shook her head. “I think you have others to woo.” She knew that Allison was listening to the conversation between them. The girl wasn’t over the short fling with Cygnus. Hermione wasn’t going to risk anything by pissing off a Slytherin. Allison could single handedly ruin her life if she saw fit.

Cygnus looked like a scolded child. “I suppose.” he replied, averting his eyes. 

Pretending to be busy with a half finished essay, Hermione watched the men at the table. Riddle was the silent stain at the table, as always, Abraxas and Rodolphus were bickering about something to do with quidditch regulations. Rosier was packing his things, preparing to leave. 

Hermione followed. 

It seemed they were planning to go to the same place; the dungeons. That was fine with her, she knew that Draco only got _more_ dramatic when he was on an empty stomach; convinced he was going to starve to death before Riddle could try and finish him off again. 

The common room was empty, so Hermione didn’t bother with sneaking around. 

“Rosier.”

He spun around, surprised. “Granger.” he seemed to shift into a different person, the way he stood up straighter, taller. “Or can I call you Hermione?” 

“Don’t care. Follow me.” Heading towards her room, she saw Draco’s animagus form lagging behind; he was trailing Rosier instead of the other way around. Hermione didn’t blame him for not wanting to turn his back on the guy. 

Rosier complied, resigned to what was happening. It wasn’t until they reached the door that he spoke. “Do you always have this many wards?” he eyed the glowing web with an emotion Hermione didn’t recognize. 

“Special circumstances.” She pushed the door open and let the temporary hostage go first. 

Draco went second, his form twisting into human instead of canine. Hermione locked the door and renewed the silencing charms before facing the two men. It was almost laughable; Rosier standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room while Draco leaned against the bedpost with arms crossed. 

“So what is this? Why am I here?” Rosier spoke first, growing more and more uneasy under Draco’s inscrutable stare. 

**“Why** **_did_ ** **you want to talk to him? Was it just the meetings?”**

 **“I’ve gotten word that Riddle’s been looking into the both of us. I want to see if he knows why.”** Their conversation was silent. It only made Rosier more nervous. Hermione wanted to laugh at his discomfort. Out loud, she let her tone remain bored; “Were you hungry?” her eyes went to her blond counterpart.

“I could eat.” 

“I don’t care what spell you’ve put on me, he’s not _eating_ me!” Rosier took a step back with the words, watching Draco with a renewed sense of fear. 

Scoffing, Hermione pulled the food from her pockets and enlarged it to its normal size. “Don’t be so presumptuous, Rosier.” she tossed an apple to Draco. “It’s unbecoming.” she set everything else from her pockets on the desk for later. 

Relaxing at the apparent lack of cannibalistic plans, Rosier crossed his arms, then rubbed the back of his neck, still uneasy. “Then why am I here? I haven’t been told to come after either of you-there’s no reason to search each other out. Unless this is a social call?” 

“I’d like to think I could find someone better to socialize with.” Hermione summoned the desk chair from across the room, sitting down. “I had questions about the girl’s bathroom.”

“What about it? I know you’re new and all but I’d think you knew where it was b-”

“Your Wednesday night playdates.” Hermione interrupted. “I want to know what you talk about.”

The three of them stared at each other in an odd silence; Draco cutting slices off the apple with a knife, Hermione waiting expectantly, and Rosier staring at the floor with a pensive expression. 

Finally, Draco gave Rosier the kick in the ass he needed. “She asked you a question.” he gestured lazily with the blade. “I’d hate to ruin my lunch with all the blood that comes with knives.” Hermione didn’t know if it was an empty threat or not. 

“Fine!” Rosier looked resigned, keeping from looking at Draco. “We just- well we talk about a lot of things. Sometimes nothing. It depends. Lately it’s been about you.”

“What _about_ me?” Hermione asked, picking pieces off a dinner roll. She hadn’t eaten in the great hall. 

Rosier’s eyes went to Draco, fearful, expectant of a bad reaction. “He’s enlisted Cygnus to try to win your affections.”

Hermione half expected something of the sort. “I turned him down. What else?” she noticed Draco’s face was made of stone as he cut into the apple. He had nothing to say about his maternal grandfather just yet. He’d probably explode later. 

“You need to be more wary of Cygnus. Riddle’s also told Abraxas and Rodolphus to look for _him_ in Hogsmeade, look into him.” He inclined his head towards Draco with the words but kept his eyes on Hermione. “He’s back to just watching for now. Aside from Black’s orders, we aren’t to interfere in any way.”

“And what happens when Cygnus fails?” Draco knew better than anyone what the Dark Lord was capable of. “What will Riddle do then?” 

Looking almost smug, Rosier put his hands in his pockets. “You’re _that_ sure Hermione’s not going to leave you?” 

“You say that as if she’s mine.” Draco’s eyes were cold, his hands steady as he cut into the apple. 

“Isn’t she?” 

Hermione held back from hexing the wizard. “No. She’s not.” the glare she gave Rosier would have cut him if such a thing were possible. “I’d prefer you not pretend I’m not in the same fucking room while you discuss my nonexistent lovelife.” 

Holding his hands out in surrender, Rosier had the sense to look half apologetic. “Alright, just tellin’ it like I see it. You two _are_ holed up in the same dorm. I don’t know many witches hiding someone that’s _just a friend_ in their room.” he seemed surprised at the lack of reaction he received, so Rosier switched gears. “I watched the door last week so I don’t know what his real plans are this week. I’ll find out tonight if that’s why you’ve dragged me in here.”

“When can we meet again?” Hermione stared him down, finding that she didn’t want to sit back and wait for another opportunity to drag Rosier aside. She’d rather figure that out now. 

His expression went pensive and Rosier shrugged. “Tomorrow. Same time as today, I suppose.”

Nodding, Hermione cast a detection charm on the hallway before opening the door. She didn’t need anyone seeing Rosier leaving her room. It wouldn’t be in her favor. “You’re free to go then.” she watched the wizard take one last wary look at Draco before moving towards the door. “And Rosier?”

“Huh?”

“Forget this conversation ever happened.”

“What conversation?” he gave a slight smile with the joke but it didn’t earn anything other than a door shut in his face. Hermione had other things to worry about. 

Opting to eat instead of worry, Hermione set to peeling an orange while Draco stared at a spot on the floor, carving into the apple. 

He was the first to break the odd silence. “If he’s asked Cygnus to worm his way into your life, he won’t stop.” 

“So what? I take him up on his offer? He asked me to Madam Puddifoot’s.”

“Yes.” the answer sounded pained.

Hermione stilled. “Let me get this straight... You think it’d be a _good_ idea for me to go on a date with your teenaged grandfather?” 

“Not when you say it like that.” 

“How _should_ I say it then?” she asked, vanishing the orange peels. 

Draco shrugged. “He’s the lesser evil. If Riddle thinks his current plan is working, he won’t come up with a more sinister one.”

“I don’t know if I can even go back on what I’ve said. I already made it clear I wasn’t going to get involved with him since Allison still likes him. I can’t downplay girl politics, she’d ruin my life if she wanted to.” 

Vanishing the apple core, Draco shook his head. “It’s not like that goes anywhere.”

“What if my being here is the reason it doesn’t?” Hermione knew that if they were to fuck with the past it would upset the present-or future-whatever, and she didn’t want that. Couldn’t have that. Not when it directly affected her only ally in the time she was in-if that was the case, _time._ Part of her wondered if Draco would still be the same or just fade away. Paradoxical theory was never something she’d been interested in. would she even remember him? If Cygnus didn’t marry who he was supposed to, would Draco be born at all? 

“He’s to be married to Druella Rosier. There’s no way to get out of it short of her dying.” 

For once, Hermione was glad for pureblood customs and politics, their strange marital practices and all that. But still, things could change, couldn’t they? “You’re sure?” 

“I’m sure.”

They finished their lunch in silence. Hermione found they worked better that way. Draco only spoke to her when necessary, and then that devolved into her bothering him and then they’d find themselves in another lull until she decided to try to goad him again. He was far too comfortable with silence. Hermione itched for sound, for noise, for conversation; be it aloud or telepathically. 

The rest of the day’s classes were mundane and left her a robot walking through day to day life. Her thoughts were far too busy, too insistent to be heard for her to pay attention to the lectures she’d already sat through once already. Hermione opted to skip dinner and go straight to bed instead of pretending to be a normal student just working towards graduation and an impending ministry job. No, she had other things to worry about; she found it difficult to identify with her ‘peers’ when she was stuck fifty years in the past with the enemy. She wasn’t even sure if this was real. If she was even alive at this point. 

It could be hell for all she knew; the scars scattered across her skin told her that she’d had plenty of near-death experiences. From the jagged scar that reached from her shoulder to her hip and the mottled wound that looked suspiciously like buckshot on her thigh. She could be dead and in some weird circle of hell because this wasn’t a complete nightmare, if she was being honest. 

Part of her wondered if Riddle was being tame with his meddling or if he had plans to hang her from a butchers hook from a ceiling somewhere as soon as he got the chance. It was hard to tell. 

“Is it really the twentieth?” 

Draco didn’t bother to look up from the book he’d stolen from her bag. “Have you forgotten how to use a calendar?” 

Hermione kept from throwing something at him purely because she was too busy having a mental breakdown. The third one since Sunday, in fact. 

She’d forgotten her birthday. 

Did it matter though? It’s not like she’d lived a full year since her last one, _so did it count?_ There was no whispered singing of happy birthday in Gryffindor tower. There was no badly wrapped gag gift from Harry, no hug from Ron, no teasing from Ginny, and no word from Molly and the rest of the Weasleys. There was no inedible cake at Hagrid’s. There was no letter from her parents. There was nothing _and she hadn’t even fucking noticed._

Not that it really mattered, because time travel just threw a wrench into everything. 

“I forgot my birthday.” She said it aloud for herself more than Draco, because honestly, why would he care? What would he even do? Tell her to shut up and leave him alone to read Stephen King’s _IT,_ probably. 

He raised an eyebrow and looked up from the well worn book. She didn’t even know it was in her charmed bag, but that had to be where he found it. “I was only kidding about the calendar thing.”

“I forgot my own birthday.” Once again, she said it more for herself than for him. It didn’t make any sense. None at all. Her eyes went to Draco’s form slumped over the bed- _her bed_ \- and she spoke to him now. “How the _fuck_ did I forget my own birthday?” The words were almost hysterical with the way they escaped. 

“You’ve been busy.” came the dry response, and then his eyes were back to the book. She supposed he was right, but the idea that she didn’t actually know how old she was in the most general sense was making her mind run in circles, nonsensical circles. 

Instead of dwelling on it, she went to bed, because being unconscious meant she didn’t have to overanalyze everything and she’d had enough of that lately. 

* * *

**_Thursday, September 21st, 1944_ **

**02:07 A.M.**

The nightmare had her waking in a cold sweat; left her shaking with phantom pains from years past. 

It was one of his. She’d learned to tell the difference fairly quickly. 

Hermione’s dreams-nightmares, were borne of memories, the edges harsh and exact as she remembered. Draco’s mind tended to create hellscapes, edges blurred and details missing. It was hard to conjure something that felt real when terror was the only thing truly needed for the visions. 

Draco’s eyes-they had been the worst. The most unnerving. 

They’d been blank, cold as stone to match his expression. She’d never truly seen him like that and it scared her, that calm demeanor in the midst of everything going on. The blood, _the blood,_ the blood on the floor, on his hands, on his face, in his hair, on his clothes. That’s all she’d really seen, was Draco, stone faced and covered in blood, tar black in the dim light. A blade dangled dull in his hands. Dripping. 

Blood, tar black. 

_Her_ blood, tar black. 

_Muddy blood,_ tar black. 

With shaking hands, Hermione picked up her wand. Pulled the spell taut, focused and _snapped it._ Her mind was free from Draco’s and she didn’t feel anything different save for the absence of the despair that came from a nightmare. She could have woken him up, questioned him about what she’d just seen, why she’d seen it, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t. 

If he was dreaming about _that,_ she didn’t want to talk to him. 

Didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to be near him. 

So she pulled on yesterday’s robes and ran. 

The viaduct was cold and empty, the wind whistling through the enclosed bridge. She didn’t know why she went there, what pulled her there but she was angry and terrified and plenty of other things and she wasn’t thinking straight so maybe that’s why she didn’t bother to sneak around or pull the invisibility cloak from her charmed purse before she ran. 

She had her wand and that was it. 

Hermione wanted to disappear. Wanted to go back and wake him up and ask _why the fuck he was dreaming about that,_ but she didn’t entertain the idea. The wind sliced through her clothes and she watched the Whomping Willow’s boughs twitch and whip around at anything that dared to disturb it. The grounds were dark, barely visible in the light of the crescent moon. 

The hut she knew to be Hagrid’s was dark. Ogg, the current groundskeeper didn’t run a fire year-round and the absence of chimney smoke threw her off, reminded her where she was. For a moment, it’d almost seemed normal. 

“Ah, Hermione, a bit late for a stroll, don’t you think?” 

Hermione shrugged and turned to greet the ghost. His face was a familiar one, a friendly one. “I needed to get out.” she said simply. “What about you? Do ghosts not sleep?” 

Nearly Headless Nick floated just next to her, overlooking the grounds. “Peeves decided to make it his death’s mission to keep me from having a decent night’s rest.” as he shook his head, Hermione saw the seam between his shoulder and neck separate just the smallest bit. “How are you liking Slytherin? Better than our Gryffindor?” 

“I wonder if I’d be in this big of a mess if I’d been sorted into Gryffindor once more.” she smiled dimly. “Nothing there is familiar.” 

“Ah but you don’t know what’s familiar anymore, do you?” the ghost spoke oddly, too mysteriously. “The Whomping Willow seems particularly bothered tonight.” Sir Nicholas changed the subject, tilting his head on his shoulders in that nervous way of his. “Do you know when it was planted?” 

Hermione raised an eyebrow, eyed the psychotic tree and then the ghost in front of her. “I can’t recall.” 

“1971. For Remus Lupin, you remember.” Nick smiled as if that statement made plenty of sense. “It’s always been a bit of a terror, don’t you think?” 

Blinking, Hermione felt her brow furrow. “It’s 1944.”

“So it is.” Nick shrugged. “Things don’t always add up in your head, see. I mean to you and that Malfoy, it’s always been there. I would think your subconscious mind would ignore little details like _when_ something appeared.” 

“What are you saying?” 

The ghost straightened his robes, his head almost tilting sideways with the movement. "That the Whomping Willow looks particularly agitated tonight.” he said it nonchalantly, as if the conversation made sense. Like the entire situation had made sense. 

Like the fact that the Whomping Willow was planted thirty years early made _perfect sense._

“I suppose.” she said, even though it’s not what she really wanted to say. 

“Well, it’s getting late, I’ll leave you to it.” Nick bowed, his head hanging from the few tendons holding his neck to his shoulders and just _floated away._

Hermione stared after the ghost of Gryffindor, wondering how the fuck her walk to clear her mind had only managed to cloud it more. Her eyes went to the Whomping Willow, which was still there, frustratingly so. She half expected it to fade away or burst into flames or _something_ but it was the same tree as always, ever angry and killing innocent birds foolish enough to fly close enough to perch upon bare branches. 

The willow tree was planted in order to hide the passage leading to the shrieking shack. She knew that. It was planted in 1971. She knew that too. She’d just forgotten. It hadn’t seemed relevant. It had always been there. She’d assumed it was hundreds of years old when she’d first laid eyes on it but that wasn’t the case; she’d found that out after a day of rereading the history book about the Hogwarts grounds. Hermione was only more confused by everything now. 

She’d gotten used to the ghosts ignoring the fact that she was fifty years in the past, talking to her as if they were in 1998 and it was just another normal day, but this was more vexing. The inconsistencies between what she knew and what had actually happened were becoming more and more glaring, harder to ignore. It all seemed to loop back to the time she was missing. Something had happened between the final battle and her appearance in the great hall and she couldn’t remember what the fuck it was. 

If it was even still inside her head. 

_‘But you don’t know what’s familiar anymore, do you?’_ Sir Nicholas had said it straight to her face. She didn’t know what was familiar anymore. Didn’t know what was _real_ anymore. Didn’t know anything. The Hogwarts ghosts would never stick around long enough to give any details, always saying things just obscure enough to make the smallest bit of sense. Hermione tried asking, but they’d skirt the subject and start talking about the weather or something else. They were obstinate in their insistence that she not find out what they knew. 

Her feet started moving and she didn’t bother with the pretense of sneaking around. It was late now, almost three. She’d been awake for nearly an hour now and no one would be walking around the castle looking for students because everyone was supposed to be asleep. She was never one for wandering about late at night, but she needed out, needed away from Draco and his terrible dreams. 

Somehow, something brought her to the second floor girl’s bathroom. 

It was empty, Moaning Myrtle absent from the space if the silence and lack of crying was anything to go by. Hermione thought it strange that the ghost hadn’t made an appearance. Most others had, but then it’d only been a year since the girl’s death and she supposed there was something to be said about the passage between life and the veil. Maybe it took longer than dying to pass over to the spirit realm. _If there even was one._

Running her fingers over the engraved snake in the sink faucet, Hermione stared at herself in the mirror. She looked the same, but she knew better than anyone that she wouldn’t really know what to look for as far as differences went. Her face was her own; it’s not like there was some stark change in her, no. It was gradual, one she wouldn’t notice unless she had something to compare to. It was like a haircut; she’d be used to long hair, chop it all off and then forget what she even looked like before the chopping. 

Had her nose always looked like that? Her cheekbones, had they always been that high? Were her cheeks that thin before or was there some disconnect between her mental image of herself? She certainly didn’t look as she did on the run; a mere pile of bones and ashen skin from living in a tent, but was that the product of her missing time or the fact that she’d been eating in the past month she’d been at Hogwarts? Her arms weren’t muscular by any means, but it was almost like she’d been working out, exercising regularly. What was that from? She was in good shape outside of the numerous scars adorning her body, which didn’t really seem to give her any trouble. 

It would make sense that she would remember herself as she looked during the missing time. Her image of herself wasn’t something she dwelled on. She merely _‘was’_ in her head. There was no ‘before’ or ‘after’ it was simply what she looked like. It was like the Whomping Willow. She had looked a certain way and so she looked the same now. There was no reason for her to revert back to the war-ridden days because she hadn’t even thought about it. Hermione wasn’t a vain witch, she knew what she looked like, didn’t dwell on it. It was subconscious. 

Was any of this real?

More and more signs were pointing to no. The inconsistencies, the ghosts, the fact that she couldn’t remember when her hair had grown as long as it did. The scars. The odd situationship with Draco. 

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

His voice startled her but she didn’t outwardly react. “Oh fuck off.” she looked to her left, where Tom Riddle was leaning against a stall. 

“I could write you up for language and breaking curfew.” he stayed where he was, arms crossed as he leaned. A quick assessment of his tone, his posture told Hermione that this was a facade. The darkness in his eyes was from loathing, the cool tone his voice took threatened to disappear and warp with something hotter. Something angrier. He wasn’t a snake in the grass, he was a wolf wearing the pelt of a lamb, the edges of his true self bleeding out for anyone to see if they looked hard enough. 

“Is that all?” Hermione asked, keeping her hands on the sink. It would be easier to draw her wand with them there. She itched to cross her arms, wrap them around herself to give some semblance of protection but the response time would be half a second longer and she couldn’t afford that, not with him. “I was having a moment.” 

Riddle raised an eyebrow, the movement odd on his face. “A moment?” 

“I’m sure your hearing’s just fine; you heard me.” she stated, tone thin and patience even more so. “If that’s all, I’d like to be left alone now.”

His eyes, ever unblinking, darted about the room, searching for something. “Tell me, Hermione. What have I done to earn your hostility, your suspicions?” his eyes landed on her once more and she wanted to shudder. 

“You mean aside from the fact that you’ve followed me into the loo at three in the morning? Well gee, I can’t recall…” she sneered, knowing this was stupid, dumb, idiotic but she was not a snake to hide away in the dark, she was a lion; one to stand up to fear. 

“I’ve done nothing to warrant your fear, yet you put on this facade that you utterly abhor me in some attempt to distance yourself.” His words have another meaning with the tone delivered but she doesn’t care what it means. 

“You confuse fear with hatred, Riddle.” her voice was low, almost as dangerous as his.

Hermione saw something shift in his eyes, in the way he stared at her. “If you treat me, a stranger, with this much mistrust, I wonder how your relationships with those closest to you fare.” he stepped closer, crowding around her and she itched to run, itched to move for her wand but he might disarm her if he thinks her to be a real threat. 

“Just fine.” It's all she can manage because she’s just realized that she’s _alone_ in the second floor girl’s bathroom with Voldemort and he’s close enough that she can make out that his eyes are a charred brown. No one knows where she is and there’s no way to ask Draco for help because she snapped their only way of communication in half. This wasn’t Riddle knocking on the door at odd hours, this wasn’t Riddle making an offhand comment as he _escorted_ her down the hallway. This was Riddle cornering her, caging her. She was alone, truly alone with him.

“Who do you trust? _Why_ do you trust them? Can you even answer that?” 

Lifting her chin, Hermione willed her voice to stay steady, to keep from shaking because he was close enough that she could fucking smell him. Cloves, tobacco, and something else; something that reeked of darkness and it was threatening to draw her in. “I find a person’s actions are all I need to earn my trust.” 

“And your Hogsmeade wizard, what of his actions? How has he proven himself?” he’s crowding around her and she steps back, hits the porcelain sink and she's trapped by him. By Riddle. By _Voldemort._ “What has he done?” 

It’s an interrogation veiled by intimidation. He’s pushing her to break because he still thinks she’s afraid and nothing else. None of that. She can play these games, she can think five steps ahead, she’s always been good at being unpredictable, sometimes unhinged. “I’ll tell you what he _hasn’t.”_ she hissed, finding her hands in her pockets and her hand wrapped around her wand. “He hasn’t sent someone to poison my Familiar for no fucking reason and he hasn’t convinced himself he’s allowed inside my head.” The tip of her wand was at his jugular now and she’s the one trapped but he’s the one threatened. “He listens to me when I tell him to _stop fucking with me_ because he knows it’s nonnegotiable.” 

There’s a shine in his eyes and he’s smirking, smiling like he doesn’t believe she’s going to do anything and she wants to laugh in his face because she’s only waiting for her mind to settle on a suitable hex. “You won’t.” he brings a hand up, pushes her wand closer, deeper into his skin, silently daring her with a look. 

_You never dare a Gryffindor._

_“Medio Ignis”_ it’s said with a sneer, and she watches his eyes switch from doubt to surprise to something else; something darker as his nerves burn beneath his skin. It’s a simple curse, one that hurts like hell and makes it feel like you’ve been set aflame and _it’s clean._ There’s no blood, no proof that it’s even happened aside from the pain one feels and Hermione pushes him back, surprised he’s still standing because she’s essentially just set his insides on fire. “I deal in many things but empty threats are not one of them.” 

Much too calmly, Hermione left. She’d just used dark magic on the Dark Lord and she doesn’t have enough sense to start freaking out because she’s analyzing the words he’s said, the things he did and all signs point to the one thing that makes the least sense. 

_He’s jealous._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, if any are noticed, please let me know.  
> [Chapter word count: 7,100]
> 
> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos! It means the world that y'all are enjoying my writing!  
> as far as the next upload goes, I want to say befOre January 3rd -I hope. I'm going to try.


	8. Contradiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do know you can’t kill your own grandmother, right?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter word count: 10,200]

* * *

I tear you down, but you help me grow  
I broke your heart, but you still won't go  
Just chew me up and spit me out  
'Cause I deserve to feel my bones break

Don't wanna be the one letting you down  
I need to leave, you won't let me today  
I try to scream, but I can't make a sound  
Guess that I really got nothing to say

I've been having dreams of you  
Sleeping with someone that's not me  
And I don't know what to do,  
Our love arrived too early

_[Dreams of You - Brennan Savage]_

* * *

**_Thursday, September 21st, 1944_ **

**02:10 A.M.**

He wakes to the click of the door closing. 

It’s instinct, to be aware of his surroundings, no matter how far into sleep he is. The smallest noise, the slightest movement. It’s the product of living in a house with the enemy. He _is_ the enemy, but with Death Eaters, there is never any camaraderie. Not with people like Greyback and Dolohov lurking about, playing games as to who can spook the others. Locked doors were never locked, peace was never quiet. Peace was nonexistent. 

Old habits die hard; even harder when they’re still useful. 

Countless times he’s woken to Hermione’s muttering, her pleas and cries for help or for someone to ‘please stop’. There’s nothing he can do for her, nothing at all. That first night still haunts him; the night he found that they had shared a nightmare, one of his. He has yet to enter one of hers but he supposes they’re the same at their core. A drawing room, dark and stained with blood long dried and a raven haired witch standing crooked with a broken wand. 

Because it was that night that things changed for both of them. 

The weather outside was dreary, like it always was, because that’s just the way things are. 

He’d returned to the manor and been pulled aside, a bony hand holding tight to his elbow. 

They’d just killed Albus Dumbledore. 

‘You’re too weak’ Bellatrix had said, a low disappointed sneer across her crazed features. ‘Your father’s always been too docile when it counts; not hard enough on you for what you’re truly capable of.’ she’d pressed her wand against her own temple, tapping as she took to thinking. ‘But there’s Black blood in you, there might be hope for you yet, come with me boy.’

And so it began; his training. 

Crucio was weak and flimsy when he wielded it. Even after countless lessons from his aunt. Dark magic was made with torture in mind, the only purpose to inflict pain and suffering. Maybe that was why the spells refused to work for him. He was not dark enough. If it was a spell or curse purely to hurt, to maim, to force suffering upon something, his magic fizzled and stopped short of the target.

It was three weeks in that he had abandoned any ideas of being a proper Dark Wizard. 

Because he wasn’t. He was a Malfoy; a failure like his father. 

So he took to using blades and weapons of the physical type. Everyone knows that anything with metal properties isn't a proper conduit for magic. Maybe that’s why they worked so well. It didn’t take long to teach himself the things considered taboo in a pureblood house. How to use a blade to inflict pain in place of a curse. He didn’t need magic after it’d disappointed him. He pushed himself towards darkness instead of letting it take him. 

In place of hiding behind his wand, he used his hands. There’s a disconnect between spells and a person’s actions. You do not need to truly think about what you are doing. With blades and the like, you have to think about everything. Cut too deep and it’s dangerous, not deep enough and it’s a waste of time. You see the effect of your handiwork on the person whose skin you are breaking, marring, and it yields results. Results you can see. 

It was only after he’d splashed blood on his hands that he truly became dark and twisted. 

Crucio bent to his will, other spells minded him, and yet he disliked using them. It was too impersonal, too clinical to stand over a person and wave a stick of wood in their face, taunting. There was always a doubt behind their eyes; something flickering, saying _‘you won’t’_ like they doubted his abilities as much as he once did. 

Bring a blade or heated metal to a person’s skin and all you get is fear. Hatred. Loathing. 

It’s simple, really. 

Draco liked to use his hands because he can trust them to pull answers when magic cannot. Will not. 

He used to think that using magic on someone was a personal thing. Something not to be taken lightly, but almost everyone he’d observed in the manor had used their wand, their magic to inflict pain. Never their bare hands. That was truly intimate in his world. To use his hands to inflict pain, suffering. 

It’s dark and twisted but Draco Malfoy has never claimed to be of sound mind. 

He used magic on those undeserving. The innocent. He never wanted it to hurt when it was one of his classmates under his wand, laid out on the floor pleading for him to stop. Luna Lovegood or anyone else thrown down on the floor before him. He gave them mercy. He did not use his hands. He gave them weak bouts of the cruciatus and called it quits far too early.

When it came time to torture or bringing about retribution, he would forgo magic. He could trust a blade under his hand. It did the work just fine, sometimes even better. Magic could only inflict so much pain. With his hands, he could flay and pick apart flesh; searching for something, taking his time. One day, he started searching for differences between purebloods and half bloods. Purebloods and mudbloods. 

He never found any. 

Tendons stretched the same, blood smelled, felt, looked the same. 

It was all the same. 

It was barbaric, what he did to them, but they were always deserving. He made sure. He always made sure. 

Some Death Eaters claimed he didn’t have a conscience. That he was just bloodthirsty. Called him warped, twisted, marred. But he wasn’t. They said he lacked true emotions, empathy. All of that. Anything that made him human. Some of the things he did would give Voldemort himself nightmares, should he happen to witness such a thing. 

But Draco Malfoy was not without guilt. Not without emotions. 

He had far too many to deal with, actually. 

Every night he fell asleep and dreamt of using his hands on those undeserving. The innocent. Those nightmares were the worst type, his hands following a path written for those who deserved it but they tracked along innocent skin in place of someone that was low enough to earn the pain. 

He dreamt about it because he had, once, only by association. Bellatrix had pulled him aside and asked him to show her. 

Show her what to do with a blade; how to use one. 

And so he did. He showed her every single way to carve into a person’s skin, how to force answers out, keep a person alive long enough for their skin to lie in heaps on the floor, their muscles pulling and browning and sticking as the meat grew more and more exposed to the air. He chose not to think about what she would do with the information, his own warped training in torture and pain. He pushed it far from his mind. He did not want to think about who she was using his methods on, because he always made sure a person was deserving before drawing a blade against skin. He always made sure.

It was mid afternoon when the snatchers came. The weather outside was dreary, like it always was, because that’s just the way things are. The golden trio thrown down on the floor; two taken, one left. 

Draco had watched in a muted rage as Bellatrix drew a blade across her skin. Her undeserving skin. _She had broken the rules._ She had used a blade on someone not worthy of true pain, true torture; pain inflicted by hand. His aunt had misused his teachings, his methods on someone that did not deserve it. 

And so it was that night that things changed. 

The nightmares started. 

In the worst ones, he stood in place of Bellatrix, a blade dangling from his hand as he leered down at her. _Undeserving._ Her skin was soft, fair, unmarked and he carved words. _Undeserving._ He could not stop. _Undeserving._ It was his fault that she had that word scratched into her arm, that scar across the hollow of her throat. _Undeserving._ It was his fault she lay there in a pool of blood bright red in the torchlight, the air only making it brighter, more stark against his skin. _Undeserving._ It was his fault she had been forced to endure this. _Undeserving._

He had shown Bellatrix what to do and she had misused the information. Abused it. 

Standing there in the drawing room, frozen with rage, it was almost like he had done it himself.

He’d never felt guilt like that before. 

And so the nightmares started and they never stopped. 

It took him a moment to realize that he was alone. 

That the door closing had been the one leading out to the hallway and not to the ensuite bathroom. 

That he was alone.

That Hermione had seen. 

She had watched him carve into her skin; peel it away like a page in a book. She had watched the one nightmare he truly couldn’t stand, but knew he deserved to see. She had watched him pick her apart like a piece of meat. She had seen. She had watched. She had been there. 

He pushed, pulled at the telepathic bond linking them together but found it missing, absent from his mind. She’d cut it, destroyed it. Ensured that she would no longer be privy to his mind. 

She had run. 

From him. 

Was she scared? Angry? Confused? 

Probably all of the above. 

There was still that nagging feeling in his chest; yelling, screaming that he needed to go to her but he couldn’t. _What if he was seen?_ The mark wasn’t reacting to Riddle. So he was gone from the Slytherin dorms. That was a problem in itself.

Riddle was gone. 

Hermione was gone. 

And Draco was alone. 

It was odd, that feeling. He’d itched for it, craved it, but now that he was truly alone, it felt wrong. 

Her absence felt wrong. 

Pulling the charmed bag from under the mattress, he dug through and found the map. The one he’d taken to staring at when she was in the common room at night when they parted ways to ‘give each other space’. The hobby he’d taken up when she was doing homework and he needed a break from the muggle literature he’d dredged up from somewhere. It wasn’t hard to activate the spellwork, watch the ink bleed into existence and find her. 

She was on the viaduct. Not alone, but Draco figured the ghost of Gryffindor was too righteous to do anything. Well, that and he was a ghost incapable of doing anything. Peeves was the only haunt powerful enough to move things, and even then it never amounted to much other than cruel practical jokes. 

He watched them stay in the same place for a while, and then the ghost floated away, his name floating through walls until it stopped in an empty classroom and gradually disappeared. Brow furrowing, Draco returned to Hermione’s name, her footsteps and waited. She stood there a long while, completely still if the map was accurate. 

Skimming the other names, the locations on the map, Draco saw that almost everyone was in bed; presumably asleep. 

Save for Riddle. 

Riddle was in the astronomy tower, pacing.

Draco’s brow furrowed once more. He’d never seen Voldemort do anything of the sort; he’d always been a stationary presence, his movements too mechanical to be perceived as natural. The Voldemort he knew would only move with purpose, with stilted conviction. Any other time, he was still and silent; waiting for something to strike at. 

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the pacing stopped. 

Inked footsteps descended the stairs on the map and Draco watched, too entranced by the Dark Lord doing anything that he wasn’t paying attention to Hermione or her movements. 

It was only when Riddle reached the second floor bathroom that he noticed where Hermione had gone; that she’d even moved at all. 

He could see the conversation on the page, Hermione’s steps facing toward Riddle’s and then Riddle was crossing the room, Hermione pressed back into the sinks. He wanted to know what they were saying. What they were doing. Why she had not run.

Draco itched to go, to run down the halls, to just kill Riddle and be done with it but that wouldn’t work. 

They could not kill him.

But they could hurt him, Draco supposed. Just not enough to kill him. 

It wouldn’t be ideal. 

Still, he wanted to go get her, yank her back to her senses because it seemed she was always doing things like this, getting too close to Riddle when they were supposed to be ‘staying under the radar’ as the witch herself put it. 

It wasn’t that he was afraid of the Dark Lord. 

No. 

He loathed him, and that was even more dangerous. 

When Draco was tasked with repairing the cabinet and killing the headmaster he’d been a boy; weak and terrified. He’d become something different since then. Something darker. He’s not afraid of Riddle because Riddle is not yet Voldemort; he’s only a boy. 

Like Draco was. 

Tom Riddle has not seen true violence yet. 

His hands do not shake as he stares down at the page, at Hermione and Riddle in such close proximity. His hands do not shake with the anger, the worry he’s feeling. 

They itch.

For the first time in a long while, his hands itch for the gloss of blood to cover them. 

His eyes are on the map again and Riddle is standing next to the sinks but Hermione is nearing the entrance to Slytherin. 

Draco shoved the map back in the bag and hid everything away. She didn’t like it when he touched the bag; it meant she’d have to redo her inventory. The inventory she did every night before bed. Not knowing what else to do, he paced. 

He paced like a goddamn caged animal because that’s all he was. 

Forced to act as a Familiar and confined to a mere dorm room in the time spent as himself. It was a different kind of hell. He had no problem with being anonymous, walking the world unseen, but this was different. It was like he’d erased himself, been rewritten as an animal. No one paid him any mind, no one gave him a second glance. It was for all the wrong reasons. 

Hermione opened the door and he stopped mid step to look at her. She looked both harrowed and gleeful and it’s odd to him, that look on her face. 

“You’re awake.” she says, closing the door being her and leaning against it.

“I am.” he replies, watching her. He is no longer the only animal in the room. They’re both caged, easy to startle in that moment and neither dares to move. 

“I thought you’d still be asleep.” It’s stilted and she eyes his side of the bed, the one he’d taken over. He’d long given up their transfigured sleeping arrangement from the beginning. “What woke you?”

He blinks, realizes he's searching her person for wounds and stops, meets her eyes. “You left.”

“Oh.” 

It’s his turn to say something, to make a noise and he doesn’t want to because this is not in his wheelhouse but he has to because he can see in her eyes that she doesn’t think the same of him. His own mind has added another scar to an undeserving soul, and once again, he has hurt her by association. If it can even be called that, because while he didn’t do it on purpose, it’s still come from him, this wound. 

Maybe that makes it worse. 

“Yeah.” He settles for the word because he’s drowning in the quiet. It’s odd, the realisation; because he’s usually wishing her to shut up, to stop talking because he wants silence. But this silence burns him. He finds he hates it. 

“I hexed Riddle.” she says, far too quickly for him to think he’s heard her correctly because she’s still standing here in front of him and not dead. 

He doesn’t know what to say so he only stares at her. 

The silence drags on and it’s less painful but she’s still got that odd look on her face, one he’s never seen from her and he wants to ask what she’s thinking but he doesn’t know how. It’s almost the same expression he received from Death Eaters in the manor after they’d seen what he’d done, but it’s more guarded, wary. She does not think of him the same, it’s clear by the distrust in her eyes and the realization burns him deeper than the quiet ever could. 

“Okay.” he finds himself saying. 

She raises an eyebrow. “What? No lecture on how dangerous he is? How he’s bad news and I should stay away?” 

“I try not to be a hypocrite.” The words escape and he sees her expression shift to one that shows a hint of fear because he’s been telling her to stay away from Tom Riddle but he’s just as bad, if not worse at this point and she’s seen it now. 

She’s afraid of him and he’s just called her on it. 

Instead of trying to talk, he wants out. That look on her face is actual fear and it looks wrong and he wants to disappear; he’s never seen her scared aside from the time she spent on the drawing room floor and instead of his aunt, it’s because of him. Because of what he’s done, what he’s capable of and it’s oddly familiar; this situation, like it’s already happened once before but he can’t remember the details. 

Hermione stands at the door, silent and eyeing the room. She looks at the knife he’d used to threaten Rosier and eat his lunch with. At the side of the mattress where her bag was hidden. At the brass letter opener sitting on the desk and finally, his hands. 

He wonders if there’s blood on them, the way she’s looking at them. 

She’s looking for weapons and he takes a step back, keeps his hands where they are because if he puts them in his pockets like he’s itching to, she might think he’s reaching for his wand. Because it’s there, in his pocket. It’s always there. They’re both predators and she doesn’t know if he’s going to turn on her. 

His step back allows her to step forward and it’s an odd dance they’re thrown into. Her expression is guarded but he knows exactly what she’s thinking even without the bond because he knows her. She’s predictable in his eyes-maybe not to others but he knows her now. 

But Draco has always been unpredictable, to her, to his family, to the Dark Lord himself. 

“I’m not going to.” he says, watching her hand move toward her pocket. 

She freezes, looks at him instead of the pocket knife on the dresser between them. “Not going to what?” 

“Not going to hurt you.” he says, taking another step back so he can lean against the desk.

“I didn’t-” she stops herself because it’s a lie threatening to escape. “Why would you say that?” 

“Because you think I’m going to.” The fear’s still there and he wants to curl up in a dark corner because he’s just that dramatic. She knows him just as well as he knows her, but she’s seen a new part of him now. One she doesn’t understand. One she never will. “I’m not.” he wishes she’d believe him. 

There’s still doubt and he wants to obliviate every memory of her because this all fucking sucks and he doesn’t know how to fix it. Doesn’t know if he can. Maybe that’s why he can’t remember anything from before. Maybe that’s why he’s got this innate sense of deja vu and maybe it’s just some kind of hellscape repeating over and over. But that doesn’t explain the time jump so he pushes that idea away. 

“Why should I believe you?” 

The question catches him off guard and slices through him, drags the truth out with no real resistance. “I can’t.” there’s no way he can hurt her on purpose; he’s done enough of that by merely existing. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Why’s that? Am I promised to someone else to torture and kill?” The words are ice and acid all at the same time. 

“You don’t deserve it.” it’s out before he can stop himself and she’s staring at him with some kind of incredulity like he’s just told her it’s because he-- Yeah let’s not think about that right now.

“Don’t deserve it.” She repeats the words as if he’s a toddler struggling to fathom the idea of indoor plumbing. She shakes her head, rights herself, and then: “What if I do?” 

She’s walking closer and he can’t move, can’t think; because she’s in front of him now, somehow convinced she deserves his hands carving into her and it’s almost like she’s cursed him, the way he can’t do anything but look at her because she still looks scared and somehow managed to plaster that brave Gryffindor facade on top of it. 

“What if I deserve it?” 

“You don’t.” It's a simple answer needing no explanation because he knows her. 

She’s radiating emotions he doesn’t understand and standing far too close. “What if I _do?”_ it’s insistent, the repetition of her words. “How do you know?” 

“I know.” 

She scoffs, a harsh noise in the room and she’s even closer. “Answer the question, Malfoy.”

“I did.” he forced his words back into that harsh mold he’d forgotten about because she’s far too close and he doesn’t like this, doesn’t want it to go where he thinks it’s going because it’s not right. It’s forced and she’s spiraling in a different way but he can see it. 

“Admit it, I deserve it.” 

“No.”

She’s angry now, pulls him forward by the front of his shirt so they’re at eye level. “Admit it.”

“Why?” he asked, trying and failing to ignore the fact that they’re nose to nose and she’s _still too close._

“Because I _do_ deserve it.” it’s a low noise and he can feel her breath on his skin. 

“No,” Steel grey meets warm amber and he wants to run far, far away. “you don’t.” It’s almost petulant the way he spits the words. 

Her eyes narrow and he wants to pull back, pull away but she’s still holding him by the front of his shirt and he’s stuck because sudden movements might spook her. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

 _“Liar.”_ It’s a hiss and then her lips are warm, almost bruising against his and he’s frozen, shocked for a moment but he doesn’t give in and kiss her back because this is wrong. He wants to hate himself for pulling away but he knows it shouldn’t be like this. 

_“Stop it.”_ it’s a hiss of his own and she’s staring at him wide eyed like she doesn’t believe it just happened either. 

“Why?” she pulls the fabric of the sweatshirt tight, tries yanking him back down but he doesn’t cede this time. She might have muttered something about deserving something but it’s a garbled whisper meant only for her and he doesn’t catch it.

“I’m not doing this.” _Not like this._

Hermione’s anger is back in waves and she’s trying to set him on fire with her glare, he can tell. “Why not?” 

“You’re afraid.” He says it like a halfcocked accusation but it's a fact. 

She has the nerve to laugh, shake her head at him as she speaks. “Of what?” 

“Me.” The realization seems to cut her just as much as it does him and her grasp loosens. 

“No I’m not.”

“Tell that to your face.” he muttered, pulling away from her and making his way towards the ensuite because that’s the only place he can really go. He’s almost to the door when he stops mid step, half turns to look at her. “Do you need the bathroom?” 

“No?” 

“Good.” He stepped inside and locked the door behind him. 

The bathtub is hardly a luxury sleeping experience but he doesn’t care.

* * *

**07:19 A.M.**

It’s by pure luck that she woke up before her alarm. 

Her mind still foggy with sleep, Hermione tried the door of the bathroom. It was locked and she didn’t really think about it before using a simple _alohomora_ to get inside. 

The sight the door opens up to is almost laughable.

Draco is- _was-_ asleep in the fucking clawfoot tub taking up the far end of the room but his legs don’t fit, so they hang over the edge. He’s already looking at her with a scowl and a guarded look and he looks ridiculous with the hood of the sweatshirt yanked over his head almost covering his eyes. 

“Why are you in the bathtub?” she asked dumbly.

Instead of replying, he turned on his side and faced the wall, his legs folded awkwardly to accommodate the movement. The silent treatment. Dramatic and well deserved for what she’d done. 

The night comes crashing back now that she’s fully awake and Hermione cringes at herself, at her own actions and she almost doesn’t realize what happened before she tried to kiss Draco fucking Malfoy in some stupor of emotions she can’t even name. She’d hexed Tom Riddle and he was not dead and neither was she and well, one of them had to die now because he wasn’t just going to let that slide. 

Maybe that’s why she kissed Draco. 

The stress made her do it. 

But no, that’s not why and the real reason scares her more than he does. 

“Malfoy!” 

“What?” he sounds aggrieved and tired and pissed off and she gets it, but she has to go to class soon. 

_“Why_ are you in the bathtub?” 

He looked over his shoulder at her, the hood of the sweatshirt covering half his face. “I would think it obvious I’m having a spa day, Granger.” his tone is the snide one he used back in the old days and it’s clear he’s shut her out. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it; my private masseuse is arriving any minute with the hot towels.” With that, he turned back to glare at the side of the tub. Like it deserved his undivided attention. 

“I have to go to class.”

“So go to class.” he didn’t turn to look at her this time. 

Slowly, she drew a long breath, trying to keep from getting him angry because she’d seen him-and well she was scared. A mixture of things but he’d been right when he called her out. She was afraid of him. And other things, but scared, mostly. “Malfoy I need the bathroom.” 

“It’s mine, go use someone else’s.”

“You can’t lay claim to a bathroom we _share.”_

He scoffed, his shoulders jostling with the movement. “What are you going to do about it?” 

She didn’t really know what to do about it. He was pouting and moody and dramatic and she’d watched him use a blade to do a near surgical exploration of her arm in his dream and she was scared of him-because she knew he was capable of that; knew he’d probably done that to a person. More than one, even. He’s never been openly angry with her and she fears he’s almost at his tipping point and doesn’t try to push him like in the past because things are different now. 

“Please?”

That gets him, jars him a moment and then he’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before. He blinks, once, twice, three times like he isn’t sure he’s awake. With a heavy sigh, he sat up, his joints cracking as he moved and he stood, eyeing her warily. “Fear doesn’t suit you, you know.” He says it nonchalantly as he leaves, making sure to keep a decent distance between them. She doesn’t know who it’s supposed to be for.

After closing the door behind her, Hermione stared in the mirror. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hair looked damn near sentient. As she got ready for yet another day of repeated lectures, she let her mind wander. 

She had seen Draco’s handiwork in person. On Rosier’s chest and she hadn’t really reacted because she hadn’t _seen him do it._ It hadn’t sunk in completely that he’d been able to actually torture someone into giving information. He’d probably done it plenty of times before but it’d been easy to forget who he was, that he had a mark on his arm that signified evil incarnate. 

He was multi faceted, that man. Hermione was privy to his dramatic cynical self but he had a dark and twisted side that was easy to ignore since she’d never seen it. She’d only seen him as a pampered aristocrat with too much money and a head full of conspiracies. He hadn’t seemed capable of such things when he was sprawled across her bed reading a book about a demonic clown that killed kids. 

Okay maybe that was a bad example. 

But he’d spent the night pouting in a bathtub because she’d hurt his feelings. Because she was afraid of him and he gave her space even when she asked for the complete opposite, no matter how misguided she had been. 

It was conflicting, feeling anything for Draco Malfoy that didn’t stem from ire and loathing. Because she didn’t hate him. She didn’t hate him and that was why it’d been so jarring when she realized that after finding out what he was really capable of, it didn’t bother her as much as it should have. Because she knew him as the man that put up with her long-winded spiels even though it clearly grated on him how much she rambled. The idiot that believed the moon landing was fake; arguing about it with her, saying there was no wind on the moon and it was easy to stage a sandy room with black walls with a shitty muggle camera from the 60’s.

She dressed quickly, braided and charmed her hair to dry itself and emerged from the bathroom to see that he’d fallen asleep. 

On the floor. 

In the corner farthest from the desk she did her homework at. 

Hermione tried to sneak around, to keep quiet as she collected her things for the day, shoving them into a book bag but it didn't really matter because he was watching her from a pile of blankets the next time she glanced over. He’d made a nest. 

That was another thing. 

Hermione doubted that bloodthirsty persecutors needed a nest of blankets to sleep. The thought makes her want to open her mouth and ask if he thinks Riddle sleeps with a top sheet and nothing else, like a psycho, but she doesn’t. His tendency to sleep with far too many blankets paints him as innocuous in her eyes; harmless. The sides she knew of him were clashing. 

“Are you staying here?” she asked, eyeing him. He’d complained about going to the classes with her but he’d always gone. They’d never been apart save for her three a.m. excursion to the viaduct and the short trips to the common room. And the time she’d been in Dippet’s office. 

All she received in way of response was him yanking the blankets over his shoulder as he faced the wall. 

Back to the silent treatment, apparently. 

But she didn’t want to leave without him. Because for one, she’d hexed Riddle and then left him there to stew, and two--

Well what exactly? 

She still wanted him around. He was dangerous, but she knew that before. She knew he was a Death Eater climbing the ranks once upon a time. What exactly did she think he did? The fact that she’d seen proof of his extracurriculars only proved what she knew; threw the ideas into concrete and made them real. Made them facts and not theories. Forced her to see him; all of him.

Her logical side was arguing with her emotional one. He was still the same person she’d been sharing a room with, she just knew more about him. She hadn’t feared him before, but maybe that was stupid on her part. But she knew him; he wasn’t a psychopathic Death Eater, he was a douchebag with a flair for the dramatic. Okay, maybe both. 

Yeah, it’s both. 

But still, she’d been fine before. 

But then again, he had a dream about dissecting her fucking arm. That had to stem from somewhere. Maybe some unresolved feelings he still harbored towards her. He could have been acting the entire time, only pretending to tolerate her; but she didn’t really believe that, not after he’d agreed to the telepathy spell. It wasn’t smart to allow someone into your head when you were trying to trick them. 

Point is, she doesn’t want to go; to be alone. To be without him. 

Hermione’s still terrified of Draco but she doesn’t want to be without him when Riddle might be looking for retaliation in an empty corridor. It’s selfish and stupid but she can deal with the fear. It’s loneliness she can’t fathom. It’s his lack of presence that bothers her most. 

Instead of going to breakfast, Hermione fell back into bed and stared at the ceiling. The room stayed silent for a long while and she itched to go back to sleep, to escape from the waking world but she didn't. Her mind was running in circles and the realization hurts because she used to talk to him when she was feeling like this; but she can’t, doesn’t know how, because everything’s changed. 

She hates the quiet but she deserves it. 

Because she doesn’t hate him. 

The stillness of the room echoed in her head, in her ears and she didn’t realize when exactly she’d fallen into a dreamless sleep, but she woke to a door closing. 

Half startled, she looked to the door leading out to the common room, but the wards were still intact and strong as ever. There was a sliver of light escaping from underneath the bathroom door and dimly, she realized that Draco had locked himself inside. 

Again. 

To shower, presumably, if the sounds of running water was any consolation. So he was either going to drown himself or go about everyday life like things were normal. Ignore the glaring issue between them. 

Hermione wanted to ask him about it but she was afraid of the answer. 

His words from the first night of terrors echoed inside her mind, only making things more jumbled. _‘Like I said, it’s like we’re evening a score. It’s my head, not yours. It doesn’t have to make sense to you.’_

Was that dream his way of evening the score? 

It seemed he either dreamed of her torturing him or the other way around. 

She’d watched as he cut into her, not only carving but flaying; he didn’t carve words, no he carved many things, pieces sliding off and falling to the floor. And his eyes; they still scared her the most. Blank, empty, like he was gone, a shell of the person she knew. 

But last night, she’d seen a tumult of emotions hiding behind steel grey. It was like night and day, the differences between his waking self- _his true self_ -and the one she’d witnessed in the dream. He had never looked at her like that before; blank of emotion and filled with concrete. There was always something there, an emotion to be puzzled out, a feeling to chase. She’d seen ire, amusement, even loathing sometimes but never that blank nothingness like in the dream. 

And last night when she’d returned, she’d seen something else. Something new. 

Grief, despair. 

Something like sorrow. 

And then he’d slept in a bathtub. It was a bender if Hermione had ever seen one. 

She’d fallen so deep into her thoughts that she didn’t notice the door opening; not right away, anyway. When she did, she found it was kind of hard to bring herself to say anything at all, because she wasn’t expecting Draco Malfoy to be digging through the magically expanded dresser drawer he kept his clothes in. 

Well that was the normal part. 

But he wasn’t wearing a shirt and she’d never seen him outside of long sleeves and transfigured robes. It’s jarring and she realizes he thinks she’s gone to classes. He hadn’t noticed that she’d stayed, skived off classes in favor of bothering him with her mere presence. 

Pale as ever, his skin stretched out over sinewy muscle and she briefly wonders why she can’t look away but she knows exactly why. 

Draco Malfoy is covered in scars. 

They arc across his skin in nonsensical patterns, the drawings of a madman and she recognizes the bladework because it’s as familiar as the word etched into her own skin. Not a madman, but a madwoman. Raised white intersects with mottled pink and she frowns, staring at him because there are far too many things to look at and he hasn’t noticed her yet. Doesn’t know she’s even there. 

Hermione knew sectumsempra caused most of the scars but they’re painted over by ragged bladework. Reworked by hand and not dark magic. There’s newer scars, not yet faded. Some are clean, sharp cuts. Some are gouges; some are mottled patterns similar to the one on her thigh. The scars are everywhere, down his arms and across his back, disappearing below the waistline of the pajama bottoms he’s wearing. She suspects his chest looks the same, if not worse. Somehow, it doesn’t surprise her, Draco being covered in proof of violence, but she doesn’t understand why; it was like she already knew they were there. 

It’s the surprised gasp that leaves her mouth; it alerts him to her presence. Draco didn’t jump, or startle, really, but the line in his shoulders became more pronounced, like he was coiling tight, expecting something to go awry. Aside from the stiffening of his posture, the brusqueness of his movements, he doesn’t acknowledge her being there. 

She watched Draco yank a grey sweatshirt over his head and Hermione recognized it as the one she’d worn on the last trip to Hogsmeade. It’s odd, that realization that they’ve been sharing everything in the dorm so easily, so thoughtlessly. 

It’s obvious he’s not going to speak by the way he’s making his way back towards his pile of blankets. Funny, she thinks. It’s not what she imagines a snake’s nest to look like. But he’s never struck her as much of a snake. More a dragon, the way he demanded attention and radiated power but she’d always attributed that to his upbringing. Still, his blanket horde doesn’t come close to the Gringotts dragon lair she’d broken into, either. Hermione stops her train of thought, because she’s likening him to an animal, a beast but he isn’t one. He’s only a man. He’s only Draco Malfoy. 

But who is Draco Malfoy?

She has yet to say something and she’s searching for a way to open up a conversation because his silence is more suffocating than ever and her mind is still running in circles.

“Are we going to talk about last night _at all?”_ she blurts it without thinking. 

Draco didn’t move, a vision of comfort in his horde of blankets, facing the wall and at first she doesn’t think he’s going to say anything. But he does. “You’re missing Ancient Runes.” he muttered, still facing the wall. 

“I know.” 

“You’re missing the review for the test tomorrow.” It's scathing and teasing but it reminds Hermione that he’s been there the whole time, putting up with her insistence she go to class and play the role of student on top of everything else that’s been going on.

“I know.”

“Rosier will want to meet.”

She almost said those same two words again but she didn't. “Fuck.” She’d completely forgotten about their meeting with the mole hiding amongst Riddle’s ranks. Well, not a mole, more like a forced double agent. Or something. 

“Best be on your way.”

She doesn’t take the dismissal as such because annoying him is not a new concept. She’s pushing him farther and farther to a breaking point she’s never seen, but there’s no other way to get him to talk. “Rosier knows where to find me.” she sighed. “Did you hear what I said last night?” 

The slope of his shoulders stiffened, straightened but he didn't react any other way. Hermione wished she could see his face, try to decipher what he’s thinking but he’s never been an easy read. “You’ll have to be more clear,” he spits it, scalds her with his tone. “Are you talking about when you told me you deserved to be cut up into tiny little pieces or when you picked a fight with Riddle?” He's speaking in an even tone to the wall and she wants him to look at her, to scream or yell or do anything but this, because she can’t fucking guage him, doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Can’t even tell if he’s angry or just doesn’t care. “Or are you referring to that part where you said you _weren’t_ _afraid of me?”_ it’s a lilting, teasing tone that’s been frozen over. 

It sets her off and she itches to stand and go rip the blankets off him, force him to look at her but she stays where she is. “I cursed Riddle.” her tone is angry, raising in volume. “After he started asking me how to earn my trust. That’s what we have to focus on now.”

“Doesn’t sound like my problem.”

“Oh would you stop that? You’ve always had something to say about how stupid it is to poke the bear and now that I’ve gone and set the bear on fucking fire, you’ve no opinion on the matter?” 

His shoulders shift like he’s going to face her but he doesn’t. “I’d be wasting my breath. You didn’t listen to me before and you won’t listen to me now. So no, _nothing to say.”_

“You don’t know what he’s like! Riddle’s just-”

“He lived in my house, Granger. I know all about him. Don’t speak to me as if I’m an invalid.”

“Well if you know all about him, why is he asking me why I trust you?” 

He scoffs at that, a sharp noise. “There’s nothing to tell. You don’t.”

“Why is he asking?” it’s forced out through her teeth. “Why does he _want_ me to trust him?”

Draco shrugs one shoulder. “He wants to recruit you.” He said it so nonchalantly she thinks she’s misheard him. “That’s what he does. He gets you to trust him and then he holds your secrets over your head.”

“Why the fuck would he want to recruit me? I fucking hate him. He has to know that by now.”

“Because you played his game. I told you to leave it alone and you didn’t.” it’s a sour tone; a disappointed one. “He likes resistance. It’s a challenge to him.” 

Silence overtook the room as Hermione went through her options. She couldn’t kill Riddle, she couldn’t keep ignoring him; it’d only get worse. She wouldn’t join him, but she could _pretend_ to. 

“I could try to win him over, get _him_ to trust _me.”_ she muttered to herself. Draco was still trying to become one with the wall or stare a hole through it; she didn’t know. Either way, he wasn’t really paying attention to her. “I could play into his games, try to get him to like me.”

“No. Absolutely not.” okay maybe Draco _was_ paying attention. 

“Why?” 

“Nothing inside the shell called Tom Riddle has any semblance of feelings. He’ll see right through it and have someone else kill you for the trouble.” 

“It’s not your decision to make.” Hermione was glaring at him but he wouldn’t see it. She could do it and not tell him; it’s not like he was her keeper. 

“It is when whatever you do directly affects me.” he had a point but Hermione didn’t know what else there was to do; not after the realization that she was wrapped up into some kind of initiation into Death Eater life. 

Hermione scoffed. “You’re being a coward.” 

“What happened to finding a way out of this mess? Have you just accepted life in 1944?” he’s still facing the wall, like the conversation isn’t important enough to have face to face. Hermione wants to throw something at him. “You won’t even leave this room now that you’ve gone and set him off. You’re hiding in here.”

“I’m not _hiding.”_

“Oh really? Then why are you still here and not out there ‘blending in’?”

A scoff escapes her and she _really_ wants to throw something at him because he’s been far too calm for this conversation. His tone has been the same even sneer the entire time and it’s like he doesn’t care enough to realize that the goddamn Dark Lord is after her now. “What happened to not being a hypocrite? You’re hiding the same as I am.”

“I’m not hiding, Granger. I’m _avoiding._ Or at least trying to.” Draco yanked the blankets over his head, but Hermione wasn’t done with him just yet. 

She wants to scream at him. She kind of does. “Why? What did I do to you?” her voice is stretched thin with the anger she’s feeling, like he has any reason to be mad at her when _he’s_ the one that had that dream; had her blood all over his hands. “You’re the one dreaming about fucking skinning me alive!” 

“You’re afraid of me.” it’s an even tone. “So I’m avoiding you.” the words are sour in the air between them. _“You_ didn’t do anything.”

“Why do you care then? What does it matter if I'm afraid?” Hermione knows she’s pushing him to a point of no return but she can’t stand this. “I would think that’d be something you _wanted.”_

Finally, Draco sits up, faces her. He’s crammed himself into a corner and yet he’s still a large presence in the room, crowding and suffocating her because she _thought_ he wasn’t looking at her because he just didn’t give a shit. But his eyes are telling her something different; hell, a whole goddamn story and his expression is harsh, a direct conflict to the anguish swirling below the surface. It’s not at all what Hermione expected to see and it jolts her into looking away. 

“I didn’t take you for an idiot.”

Hermione’s gaze is glued to a stray thread on the blankets she’d balled between her fists because she can’t look at him, not when he’s like this, because it contradicts everything. “What then? You like resistance? Like Riddle? You want to prove yourself, is that it? So sorry to have ruined your _game.”_ It comes out without her really thinking about it and she doesn’t stoop to regretting the words because she wants to know more than she wants to erase everything. 

“You should go. Before-” he stopped himself, snapping his mouth shut in place of finishing.

“Before what?” She finally looks at him and it’s just as shocking as the first time because she’s never seen him like this; upset. But it doesn’t stop her words from escaping. “Before you decide to murder me? Before you decide to carve something else into my arm?” 

“Just go.”

“Where the fuck am I supposed to go?” her voice was shaking with anger, and plenty of other things but she persisted. “I cursed Riddle I can’t-” it was her turn to stop herself because she _almost_ said something she shouldn’t have. 

She didn’t need to finish because he knew. “You don’t want to be alone with Riddle. Is that it? I’m the lesser evil?” 

“That’s not-”

“Oh but it _is,_ Granger. You want me there to protect you. Your own personal guard dog; that’s what I’ve been this whole time, isn’t it? What do you want me to do? _Skin him?”_

She laughs but it’s far from funny. “I thought that was reserved for mudbloods such as myself?”

“You think I’d do that to you?” It’s unnerving, the way he stays so calm. “You think I’d cut you into scraps of meat?” Draco doesn’t let her answer because he’s on again, his voice twisting into something poisonous. “If you think that then you _are_ an idiot.”

“I don’t! And that’s _why_ I’m a fucking idiot!” She doesn’t even think about what she’s saying because he’s too calm and she isn’t and it’s all wrong because she’s always been the levelheaded one. “Because I don’t even know what’s stopping you from going all Silence of the Lambs on me!”

“I’m not Buffalo Bill.” 

“Are you sure about that? Have you ever thrown somebody down a well?” 

Draco glared, clearly annoyed. “Is this really what you want to talk about right now?”

“I don’t _know_ what I want to talk about! Because on one hand I want to believe you’re still the same person I know but on the other I can’t stop wondering if you’ve actually done that to someone!”

“Granger, I assure you I’ve never thrown someone down a well.” 

It escapes through her teeth. “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

“So ask me. If you really want to know, _ask me.”_ its scathing and Draco’s face is hard but his eyes are still alive with too many emotions for Hermione to pick apart.

Part of her knows she shouldn’t, but curiosity killed the fucking cat. “Have you ever done that to someone?” her tone is quiet, like she doesn’t want him to hear; doesn’t want to know the answer, because she’s sure she already knows. 

“Yes.”

It shakes her, that simple admission; turns her blood cold. “Why?” it’s good it’s a simple word because she can’t really manage anything else. 

“They deserved it.”

The room fell silent and Hermione looked away, thoughts racing. She didn’t know him. Not that well, not as well as she’d thought. Draco had reverted to some kind of occluded stupor because his answers lacked any true emotion, like they were mechanical, robotic admissions that didn’t matter. She’d say they didn’t, not to him; but Hermione could see his emotions eating away at him behind the mask. 

“Would it kill you to lie?” 

Draco scoffed, leveled her with a stare. “I’ve never lied to you Granger.”

A muffled scream of irritation escaped and she threw a pillow at him. “Why can’t you just be an evil psychopath? It’d be so much easier.”

“I told you to leave it alone.”

“No, you told me to _leave._ There’s a difference.”

“Semantics.” he yanked the blankets back over himself and faced the wall again, adding the pillow she’d thrown at him to the makeshift bed. 

Hermione eyed his pile of blankets. “Are you _sleeping?”_

“I’m trying to. But someone keeps bothering me.”

She sighed, “Lunch is soon, Rosier will be here.”

“The evil psychopath needs his beauty rest.”

“I said you _weren’t_ an evil psychopath.” Hermione muttered it, glaring at his back. When he didn’t answer, she kept going, because for some reason she felt bad for him; like this was something that’d already happened and she’d gotten over it. “You could transfigure a bed. You don’t have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

“Last I checked that’s exactly what I am.” It was dry sarcasm. 

Hermione looked for something else to throw but the only thing left within arm’s reach was the last pillow. “You’re a drama queen, you know that?” 

“Oh, that’s _so much better_ than ‘evil psychopath’.” it was still a dry tone that lacked any real emotion, only a sarcastic lilt. 

“Are you done?” 

His voice was muffled through the blankets this time. “Granger, I’ve been done since we started this conversation. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not comfortable to sleep in a bathtub.” 

Hermione itched to obliviate the dream and the whole night from her mind because everything was fine before. It was just fine. Things almost seemed normal now but they weren’t, they weren’t because even though they were kind of talking like they used to, she couldn’t stop imagining him with blood on his hands, all over him, a knife with her blood and it’s a giant pain in the ass, remembering things. Not being able to forget. 

And to make it worse, she’d seen him in person, in his waking moments covered in blood and that’s what made it the most real. But looking at him now, sleeping in the corner in a pile of blankets she wanted to scream because it was the exact opposite of what her mind projected him as. 

So she went back to bed and stopped thinking.

Inner turmoil was not something she needed. 

* * *

**12:36 P.M.**

Rosier looked more on edge than the day prior when he stepped through the door, and Hermione understood how he felt. Another startling realisation; she’d brushed off his initial fear response but now she understood why he stood in the middle of the room, his eyes darting this way and that, his face pulled tight but the terror still bleeding through. 

Draco was leaning against the desk, arms crossed and seemed adamant that Hermione do the talking. So she did.

Their imperiused spy didn’t yield much information, said it was ‘just one of those days’ and insisted they didn’t talk about much during Riddle’s bathroom meeting. It made sense, but not a whole lot. Hermione had cursed him _after_ the meeting, but surely someone had something to say; Cygnus and his apparent failure to secure a date in Hogsmeade, the lack of intel on the mysterious ‘Draco Snape’ hanging around for Hermione. It didn’t make any sense. 

Rosier was keeping things from them.

Draco noticed as well. There was a slight shift in him, the way he held himself taller and broader, his face etched into stone as he circled the room, keeping his eyes on Rosier; a pocket knife spinning in his hands, the sight of it only making their freed puppet more uneasy. “Rosier…” a smile with no humor. “Do you take me for a fool?” 

“What? No!” 

Hermione watched Draco play the game; watched him sink into a persona she’d only seen parts of. It was unnerving, how easily he switched masks, a slight tilt of his head, the hardness in his eyes. He was a predator, deep down. He’d hidden it until now. 

“Does he know where I am then? Did you talk?” 

“No, I wouldn’t-” Rosier shook his head, a sheen of sweat developing across his brow. “I didn’t tell him anything!” 

The knife was the only thing Hermione could focus on, the way he played with it the same as his wand, twirling it between his fingers. “You’ll have to excuse my not believing you.”

“He doesn’t know! Tom’s asked me about things but I haven’t told him anything!” Rosier’s eyes darted to Hermione for a moment but then his attention was back on Draco. “I swear on my sister’s life!” 

A huff of a laugh from the blond, but it was cold, humorless. “And how _is_ Druella?”

Hermione watched Rosier’s eyes widen, the way the tendons in his neck became more pronounced, but the man didn’t speak. 

“You think I won’t find her if you’ve betrayed me? Is that it Rosier?” 

“You’ll never-”

“Twelve Grimmauld place.” Draco cut Rosier off before he could spout the misinformation. “Staying with the future in-laws in preparation for her betrothal to Cygnus Black.” 

“How do you know that?” 

Another dry laugh, the knifeblade shining in the light. “I know a lot of things Rosier.” Draco paced, slow and even across the floor, not even bothering to look at the man he was threatening. “Blood wards, a Fidelius charm, unplottable; none of that matters. If you betray either of us, you’ll find your sister dead.” Finally, he looked at Rosier. “Understood?” 

“Yes.” The look Rosier gave him was scathing and full of loathing but Draco didn’t blink. “If you hurt her-”

“That’s completely up to you, Rosier.” It was almost cheery. “If you pull something like this again I won’t be as tame.” Drace glanced towards Hermione, a slight smirk on his face before settling back on Rosier. “I rather it not come to that; Granger doesn’t like it when I make a mess of things.”

“Fine.” Rosier grit his teeth. “Is that all?” 

“We’ll continue this another time. Out.” Draco nodded toward the door, daring Rosier to do something. 

Hermione watched their puppet leave, too startled by the change in Draco to notice that he was looking at her, watching her like she was going to break or something. In the past twelve hours she’d seen a completely new side of him, a threatening dangerous side and she had no idea what to make of him anymore. 

“You do know you can’t kill your own grandmother, right?” 

“Rosier doesn’t.”

“Why did you have to threaten him?” 

Draco sat down in the desk chair, folded the pocketknife. “Fear works just as well, if not better when it comes to controlling people.”

“Why wouldn’t the imperius be enough? You _did_ cast it on him, didn’t you?” 

He spun the knife handle between his fingers, shrugged. “It’s slipping.”

It didn’t make sense that it’d be an issue, that the spell would start failing but Hermione didn’t want to ask. Knew she had to, though. “Why?” 

“Because I’ve never been good with Unforgivables, Granger. They don’t like to listen to me from time to time.”

Hermione stared at him, the pieces slowly pulling together. She knew that Unforgivables, like the Patronus, needed to pull magic as well as emotional intent. 

You have to mean them. 

“What changed? It seemed to be working just fine the other day.” 

He stayed silent so long she thought she wasn’t going to get an answer. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out on your own.”

“Now’s not the time to be cryptic, _Malfoy.”_

Draco rolled his eyes, leaned back in the chair. “You don’t need to know everything, _Granger.”_

“Can you blame me for wanting to know?”

“If you’re looking for peace of mind you won’t get it from me.” Draco muttered, standing up and crossing the room-not that he had anywhere to go, unless he wanted to take another nap in the bathtub. 

“I’m not looking for peace of mind, I’m asking you why.” 

“No, you’re looking for a reason to keep me around. I’ll cut the inquiry short; you won’t find one.” it was curt, to the point, cold. “So just drop it.”

“I’m not _looking_ for a reason.”

He eyed her, his face a mask. “So there’s no need for me to sta-”

“That’s not what I’m saying you fucking idiot!” Hermione’s voice rose without her realizing it. “I don’t want you to go anywhere.” she could see that he was about to spit the words, so she stopped him before he could say them. “And it’s not because I see you as some guard dog.”

He rolled his eyes at that, shook his head like she was nuts. Maybe she was. “You’re being an idiot.”

“I want you here. Okay? Is that so hard to believe?”

“You’ll have to forgive me for saying yes.”

It’s a scream of frustration that leaves her and honestly, she doesn’t know what it is about him that makes her want to throw things, but he just has that effect on her. “Is that not enough? The fact that I just want you around because I just _do?”_

“Not when it’s not the truth, Granger.” he leered at her, a cruel tone accompanying his words. “You only want me around because I’m a reminder of the past; of what you have to get back to. Because I’ll come in handy should Riddle decide to do something. That’s all you’re feeling.”

“I want you here because I feel safe with you, you fucking idiot!” 

He stops at that, his brow furrowing like she’d just asked him to find out how many watermelons Timmy bought at the local market. “I didn’t take you for a liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re still scared of me, Granger.” His words force her to a realization, one that doesn't make any sense but Hermione has never dealt in sensical things. 

“No.” it was a low noise, one that dared him to interrupt. “I’m scared because I’m _not_ scared.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, if any are noticed, please let me know.
> 
> [Chapter word count: 10,200]
> 
> posting early because I have terrible impulse control. Happy NYE  
> I love hearing y'all's theories! even if it's killing me that I can't say anything about them.  
> and thank you all so much for your kind words! that's what keeps me writing even when I'm like 'bro what the fuck'.


	9. Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you always skip foreplay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long trek ahead boyos, 12,000 words so add it to your schedule-or something.

* * *

_9/22/44 _

_Diary,_

_Hermione has been avoiding me since the incident in the bathroom. It’s useless, as I’m perfectly fine with lying in wait. I will wait for an opportunity and take it. She underestimates me._

_Abraxas suggested a plan to get the witch alone in Hogsmeade whilst he ‘takes care of’ her wizard. I did not ask for the details as I can't bring myself to care. He has to prove himself somehow, I figure this will be the best way to test his allegiance._

_Rosier is acting oddly. In the past two days, he has owled his sister at least six different times. If I were a caring leader, I would ask what his problem is, but it’s his problem. If it affects his work, I may ask, but he has no mission as of now so I’d rather not get involved in whatever it is._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/23/44 _

_Diary,_

_Plans with Abraxas have changed. I have thought of a way to get even with the witch._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/24/44 _

_Diary,_

_Her wizard is dangerous. Dare I say he’s an asset. The only problem is discerning which is more valuable. It will require more tests._

_It was a blatant display of violence, he didn’t care to use magic and that both concerns and thrills me. Rosier may have competition. Next weekend will be exciting, if I can manage to pry them away from each other. It should be easy enough._

_May need to employ Cygnus to rekindle his flame with the Parkinson witch, she's friendly with Hermione. It wouldn't be difficult to suggest she invite Hermione to go shopping or whatever else women do in their free time. It would allow us to truly test the Draco character. He has potential._

_T.R._

* * *

**_Saturday, September 23rd, 1944_ **

Hermione wanted to beat the shit out of him. 

Craved it. 

Draco lost his fucking mind after her admittance that she wasn’t afraid of him and called her insane, insisted on it- but she knew better. Somewhere along the line, she’d grown to trust him, to rely on him. It wasn’t until her jaunt about the castle that she truly realized it, and afterwards she found that she _knew_ that he’d never hurt her. Fighting-well, truly arguing with him felt wrong; it had jump started her apparent epiphany. 

And sure, maybe it was insane, but she didn’t care. Something had changed between them and she didn’t have all the pieces to the puzzle to figure out why. But she had enough pieces to know that she could put faith in him. 

He’d taken to ignoring her and she wanted to throttle him for it. It was like he was convinced that putting distance between them would force her to change her mind about him. If anything, he was just solidifying the fact that she wanted the stubborn little shit around because the whole ‘not talking to each other’ thing was slowly killing her. It’d been two days. It was pitiful. 

Hermione missed annoying him. She missed bothering him with her questions and the conversations they had about the muggle and wizarding world. It would have been easier had they not been sitting in the same room ignoring each other, but she itched to reach out to him, start a conversation because she still hated the quiet. And he was _right there._

It hurt to be ignored by him, even if it was due to his own misguided ideations about her. 

She wasn’t crazy. 

He wasn’t as bad as he wanted her to believe. Sure, he tortured people, but he seemed to have some kind of moral code-he said they deserved what they got. And it wasn’t like he was actively trying to tie her to a chair and pick her to pieces with a bread knife. It was laughable, that excuse. 

She could say it was the bare minimum, that she only felt this way because he was all she had, but it wasn’t that, not really. 

He was a comforting presence. He listened to her rants and they got into debates about Gamp’s law and things her other friends would never think to have an opinion on. Somewhere along the line, he’d become a friend. Maybe something else. It was possible she’d forgotten that too. Maybe that’s why this hurt so much. She could put their past behind them, focus on who he was now and not who he was in their school years-the other ones. In the 90’s. _Yeah those ones._

She’d gotten over her dislike for the old Draco. Which was insane in itself. So why not keep with the theme and ignore his tendencies for torture? Hermione really didn’t care. She’d done things. She kept a journalist in a jar for months on end; she was just as bad. It would do her no good to be a hypocrite. Sure, she’d never tortured someone with a letter opener, or used the Imperius curse, but Draco was fine with being a lesser evil. Hermione had half a mind that the war would have long been over had Harry just used the killing curse on Voldemort at the triwizard tournament. 

Sometimes darkness was inevitable. 

Necessary. 

Hermione had enough sense to recognize when something was needed; when something could be useful. Draco’s ease in getting his hands dirty would come in handy should they find themselves in some clash with Riddle. 

They’d gone to class together because she knew that an impromptu four day weekend would draw attention from the wrong people. Professors might look into her records and see that she didn’t have any, and then there was Riddle. The bastard. Hermione wanted to kill him. It didn’t even have anything to do with what he becomes- no. He was just annoying. Hermione was tired of catching Riddle looking at her, tired of feeling like she was being watched, tired of all of it. Maybe she’d take up the habit of hiding from her problems in the bathtub like Draco had.

Draco didn’t _have_ to accompany her to class on Friday, he could have stayed locked in the room, but Hermione was glad he’d gone out anyway. Even with the rift between them, she still wanted him around. Even if the rift was one sided. She still didn’t see why he couldn’t just pretend things were normal like she’d been adamant on doing. 

It was hard to tell if she didn’t care about his extracurriculars because of her situationship with him or if it was because they were all they had in the current state of things. But then that was something else to think about; she’d felt some kind of deja vu during their weak argument. Even the kiss-well it’d seemed familiar, like it’d happened before but gone differently afterwards. It was like she’d kissed him before but they hadn’t stopped, hadn’t listened to reason. 

It was like Sir Nicholas said; she didn’t know what was familiar anymore. 

But Draco _was_ -everything about him was familiar but for reasons unknown. The way he sprawled out with one of her books, the way he questioned her references, his dry sense of humor. Even his moody dramatics. He was comforting in ways she couldn’t understand. 

Part of her didn’t want to understand. 

Instead of falling into a stupor of ‘why’ and ‘how’ and ‘this doesn’t make sense’, Hermione rapped her knuckles against the bathroom door on Saturday night. “Will you come out of there?”

A beat of silence passed and Hermione rolled her eyes when he opened the door a crack. “Why?” 

“Because I’m bored.”

“Why is that my problem?” 

“We’re roommates. We _share_ our problems.”

Draco scowled and leaned against the doorframe but kept the door mostly closed-like she was about to knock the door down and invade the bathroom- _and she was._ “I don’t know how Gryffindor works but that’s not how it was in Slytherin.”

“It is now.” Hermione chided, pushing the door open farther and dragging him out by his sleeve. “Quit stewing and play cards.”

He didn’t let himself be dragged very far, but he was far enough out that she could spell the door shut and lock him out of the ensuite. “Granger, I don’t want to play cards.”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Say _what?”_

 _“Please?”_ It earned another scowl from the prince of dramatics and Hermione grinned. She’d gotten him. He wouldn’t refuse now. It was like she’d found his kryptonite-he hated it when she used manners-or the word please, more like. “Come on, you can’t be a depressed dipshit for the rest of eternity. And I’m bored. So unless you think Riddle wants to play cards, you’re stuck with me.”

“Allison or Elizabeth would play.” he muttered, watching with arms crossed as Hermione dug out a deck of playing cards from her bag. 

“Well I don’t feel like dealing with their gossip. Or Allison’s pining over your grandfather. It’s weird. Especially since I know they don’t end up together.” she pulled him towards the bed and sat down against the headboard while he took a seat on the foot of the bed looking uncomfortable as ever. “What do you wanna play?”

“You’ve made it clear it’s your world, I’m just living in it.” he muttered, watching as she shuffled the cards. If it were anyone else, she would have taken offense to the words, but it’s just the way he was. 

“I can teach you how to play Texas Hold’em.” she suggested, raising one eyebrow and shifting her gaze from the cards to him. “It’s muggle.”

“I know how to play poker, Granger.”

Hermione’s hands stilled on the deck. “Who taught you?” 

“I don’t know.”

“And you don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No stranger than being stuck in the forties.”

Hermione shrugged and dealt the cards. “You throw a fit over me seeing one of your nightmares but being stuck in the past doesn’t phase you.” She said it more to herself than to him. 

_“Granger-”_

“-I’m just saying” she cut in. “You think I’m nuts because I’m not afraid of you but you’re suddenly _aware_ of a muggle card game-among other things- and you’ve no issue with it. I’d say you need your priorities reordered if I knew any better.” 

“What are we betting?” Draco asked, changing the subject. 

Hermione summoned a bag of candy from the desk and silently split it between them. “I’ll deal.”

“Of course you will.” Draco muttered, picking up the cards she dealt him. “Is this really why you’ve dragged me out here?” 

“I was bored. And you’re going to get scoliosis if you spend any more time hiding in the bathtub.”

“No I’m not.”

“Wanna bet?” 

“We already are'' he told her, setting down three chocolate frogs. “But something tells me you didn’t drag me out here because you’re worried about my health-or lack thereof. And we both know I’m in no danger of developing scoliosis.”

“Radiculopathy then.”

“That isn’t a thing.”

“It’s a pinched nerve.” she muttered, adding two sugar quills to the pot. “You’re like a bear with a sore ass if I wake you up too early, now that you aren’t getting any sleep at all it’s even worse, so yeah, maybe I’m being self serving by trying to get things back to normal.”

“I’m sure.” he rolled his eyes, checked his cards and leaned against the bedpost. “Are you going to deal or are we going to sit here all day?” 

“Always so impatient” she tittered, setting down the first three community cards. “Stay or no?” 

“Raise.” Draco set down a cauldron cake. 

Hermione kept her face blank as she set down the fourth card and added a licorice wand to the pot. “Are you sure you know how to play?” 

“Yes.”

Hermione set down the last card, a five of spades. “Are you _sure?”_

“Yes, Granger.” Draco showed his hand. “Straight flush.”

“Fuck you.” Hermione muttered, setting down her own cards. She’d pulled a three of a kind. She watched as he swept his winnings towards himself and started a pile for the old cards. “Beginner’s luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.” 

“That’s all gambling is.”

He scoffed, shook his head. “I would think you’d want something with more strategy.”

“Fine, we’ll play go-fish instead.”

“Fine.”

Hermione shuffled the cards again. “This is muggle too.”

“I’m aware.”

“So who taught you how to play cards?”

“No clue.” he replied, accepting his cards and fanning them out in one hand before stacking them again. “Sevens?”

“Fish.”

It went on like that for a while, the two of them merely enjoying each other’s company, their problems temporarily forgotten as they bartered over cards and traded the candy they both technically owned since they stole it together. They didn't talk much, not enough to delve into serious subjects anyway-but she knew Draco was itching to start some kind of conversation that could end in an argument and allow him to escape. They stuck to safe subjects, for the most part. Hermione lost almost every play and promptly switched games afterwards out of frustration.

“You’re a sore loser.”

“I think you’re cheating.”

“How the hell do you cheat at twenty one?” 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “There’s plenty of ways.” she collected all the cards and shuffled them once more. “What if you’re charming the cards?” 

“You’re the one that wanted to play, now I’m doing it wrong by winning?” 

“Yes.” she let her tone take on a teasing lilt. 

Draco shook his head. “Why are we doing this?” 

Startled by his change in tone, she stared at him in silence for a moment. He'd done this before-he'd change the subject to veer into uncomfortable territory to lead to his escape-or avoidance of the situation. She played along to see what exactly he was getting at. “What do you mean?” 

“Pretending things are normal.”

Sighing, Hermione leaned back against the headboard. Why was she? It’d been bothering her, but she hadn’t been able to pull an actual reason from her mind. Things just felt _off_ without their odd relationship. “I don’t know.” she really didn’t want to have some deep conversation-she wanted things to just go back to the way things were before. “Fake it ‘till we make it I guess.”

He looked ready to bolt. “Why does it matter?” 

“Why does _what_ matter?” 

“Whatever it is that’s between us.” 

His mentioning it only made it real, forced her to realize that there was, in fact, _something_ between them. Something neither knew anything about. “I don’t know.” it was an honest answer. “I just-” her mouth snapped shut before she could say something too serious. 

Draco only raised an eyebrow, and it was obvious he wasn’t going to say anything. 

“I don’t like not talking to you.” she rushed it out and averted her eyes. “It’s weird when we don’t talk-I don’t know if it’s because of the memory loss shit or the fact that we’ve been in a room together for a month.”

He had that look on his face-the one that said he was about to make a break for it and Hermione was surprised he’d stayed this long. “You’re deluded.”

“I never said it made sense.” Hermione muttered. “And you’re the one that brought it up; I just wanted to play cards.” it was a slightly teasing tone in order to veer the conversation towards less serious subjects. Subjects that didn’t involve her _feelings._

“You could have asked Allison and Elizabeth to play cards.”

“You said that already.”

“You would have been fine with their gossip.”

She wanted to throw something. “They aren’t you.” 

It was a simple statement, one she didn’t really think about until it was out in the air and she almost regretted it. Draco’s eyes were doing that shifty thing where it was damn near impossible to detangle the emotions broiling beneath the surface and Hermione couldn’t tell if she wanted him to stay or run like he was probably itching to. 

“I don’t know what you want me to do.” 

“I don’t want you to do anything.” it was a low tone- soft, even. “I just want to play cards.”

They continued playing cards and ignoring the elephant in the room until almost midnight. The conversation was stilted when they spoke, but Hermione preferred it over the silence. Sure, she could have gone out into the common room and found something else to do, but she didn’t want to. Everything had gone to shit. She wouldn’t lose the strange _thing_ with Draco as well. It was selfish, she knew, but there was guilt as well. She’d hurt him-kind of, sort of. And then she’d confused him. 

There was some innate _need_ to fix things. Hermione couldn’t rationalize it, but she just wanted things between them to be _okay._ Because really, she didn’t care, not anymore, not after remembering what the fuck was happening around them and everything else. It’d been a nightmare, something he had no control over, and he’d obviously been through far worse than she had if the scars covering his body were anything to go by. 

The thought of his scars threatened to drag her down another rabbit hole because she _recognized_ them. She’d known they were there but had no memory of ever seeing the blond shirtless before. It was odd. Almost as odd as the realization she knew what most of them were from; namely the jagged lines across his chest; she didn’t know how, but she recognized Bellatrix’s handiwork almost immediately. And then the others-well those were concerning. She had to ask. Had to. Because it might tell her something about her own inexplicable scars. And it was a change of subject; something else to talk about. She couldn’t help it. 

“Who shot you?” 

Draco looked up, brows furrowed. “What?” 

“You got shot-who by?” 

“Shot?” he seemed confused by the concept, by the idea, and it made things more muddy in her mind. 

Hermione tapped her collarbone. “I know you got shot here, but I don’t know why I would know that.”

Blinking, Draco reached up and rubbed the spot she’d pointed to, frowning. “What are you getting at?” 

“When I saw you without a shirt I realized I knew you had other scars.”

“I didn’t take you for a peeping Tom.” 

“But I’m not.” Hermione countered. “I only saw your back, I never saw your chest, but I know there’s something here.” she tapped her own collarbone again. “A bulletwound.”

Draco pulled the collar of the shirt down and Hermione stared at the mottled scar. She frowned, a memory yanked to the surface of her mind, but it was fuzzy, not all there-like it’d been altered. 

She remembered a hazy street, stucco buildings; the stench of dark magic and gunpowder stinging her nose. Draco’s blood was on her hands, and he was glaring at her, saying something but she couldn’t hear. In the memory, she felt some sense of urgency to run-to go somewhere else, but she had no idea why. 

“I was there.”

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

Hermione eyed the clock, then Draco. “I was there when you got shot, I think.”

“Are you saying you remember something?”

Nodding slowly, Hermione shuffled the cards-it was something to keep her hands busy now. “We were somewhere tropical-which doesn’t make any sense. You were pissed off and yelling about something but I don’t know what.”

He didn’t say anything, not right away. “You have a scar on your thigh, don’t you?” 

Slowly, she nodded. 

“A lab in Egypt.” was all he said, his tone quiet, like he was talking to himself.

It was like her hands moved on their own. “You should look, see if it’s familiar or something.” she didn’t really think about why she’d grabbed his wrist, why she’d stopped him from running away-it was like she knew what he was going to do before truly thinking about it. 

“I don’t-”

“Malfoy! This might be important!” 

Shaking his head, Draco pulled from her grasp and stood up. He looked like a caged animal as he paced the room, avoiding her gaze. He didn't pace much, it was only a way to keep distance between them-a way to cross the room and not look suspicious. “It’s not a good idea.”

“It’s idiotic to ignore this! I don’t know how I got that scar, but you do? It doesn’t make sense!” 

“And I suppose you want in my head to see what I know as well, don’t you?” he cocked his head, crossed his arms. “Look how well that turned out last time.”

“You’re being a coward.”

His steps faltered as he glared at her, like all of his energy was put into scaring her. “It’s not a good idea.”

“I don’t see a fucking pensieve in here so I don’t know what else there is to do!” 

“You can leave it alone.” It was a low growl from deep in his throat, probably meant to scare her but she wasn’t going to cede. “I would think you’d have learned your lesson.”

The cards forgotten on the bed, Hermione crossed the room and backed him up against the wall-she had no idea why she even moved, but having an argument from across the room didn't seem normal, not when he never raised his voice. “Fine then, you go in my head and if it jogs your memory then I can see yours. If it doesn’t do anything then we drop it.” he was still glaring down at her with an intensity strong enough to set her on fire but she didn’t back off, not when they could be so close to unravelling things. “It’s my scar, I want to know how I got it.”

He scanned the room before levelling his eyes back on her face, like he was looking for an excuse. “It’s not a good idea.”

“I don’t care.”

A long bout of silence hung between them and Hermione resisted the urge to shake some sense into him. They were close to… _something._ He was keeping things from her and she didn’t like it. He was trying to protect her from something but she didn’t really care-she needed to know. 

“Please…”

His eyes flashed with something and he pushed past her, the spell broken. “Stop it, Granger.”

“This could be something important! If we remember things-”

“You aren’t going to drop this, are you?”

“You’re the one going in my head. I said I’d go first.”

A particularly deep sigh sounded and he eyed her. “There’s no talking you out of this?” 

“No, and it’s not every day I go around asking people to dig around in my head. Don't you want to know who shot you? What if it jogs your own memory?”

Silently, he nodded towards the bed, for her to sit down. It would do her no good if she collapsed or something if it happened to be painful. He sat at the foot of the bed like before and Hermione watched him draw his wand, saw the way his hands shook. 

“It’ll be fine.” she told him, leaning against the headboard in preparation for the spell. “I trust you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. _“Legilimens”_

_“Where is he?”_

_“Headed south, last I saw.”_

_“Fucking christ. Why can’t they make things easy?”_

_Hermione looked to her right, saw Draco breathing heavily, a pistol hanging loose in his grasp as he stared down the deserted street. “Because they don’t want us to catch them.” he muttered quietly, wiping the blood from his face and grimacing. “He’s headed for the apparition line we set.”_

_“Well we can’t just let him go! He’ll blow your cover.”_

_“I’m more worried about yours at this point.” Draco nodded at her. “You look like a serial killer.”_

_Hermione looked down at herself, saw the blood caked on her clothes. “Nothing an obliviation won’t fix.” she told him. “We need to go, before he escapes.”_

_“It’s Avery, he’s too stupid to make it far, especially after you set him on fire.”_

_“Well I don’t want to sit around here wiping memories for three hours; so can we get going?”_

_Shaking his head, Draco summoned a broom from an alley behind them. “Fine.” he tucked the pistol in the waistband of his jeans and gave her an expectant look._

_“I’m not touching that thing.” Hermione muttered, eyeing it. “You remember the last time-”_

_“You’re not going to fall off.” he nearly growled the words. “Unless you want to run him down on foot, you’ve no other choice.”_

_“If you-”_

_“You’ll be fine, Granger.”_

_Begrudgingly, she stepped closer and straddled the broom, Draco’s chest pressed against her back as they took off down the street. The muggle repelling charm they’d cast was still in place, but as time dragged on, she knew it’d start to waver. The street was mostly empty, only the wind causing movement along the street._

_“There! Is that him?”_

_A shot rang through the air and Draco veered right, towards a rooftop and they landed less than gracefully atop a deli. “I’ll get him.” the words were muttered from her lips and before she knew what was happening, Draco was gone again, chasing the man-Avery, on the broom._

_Her feet moved faster than her mind as she found the fire escape and climbed down, heartbeat in her ears and lungs fighting for air. Another shot rang through the air and she could tell by the echo that it hit something._

_“You’re a traitor Malfoy! Just you-”_

_Anything Avery had to say was cut off as the spell hit him, knocking the man over. Hermione could smell the dark magic, feel it, even. The threat gone, she walked over, checked the man for any other weapons. He’d lost his wand somewhere along the way but guns were fairly common-easy enough to get if you knew the right people. She kicked it away, the metal grinding against the stone roadway._

_“I had that.”_

_She spun on her heel. “No, you didn’t.”_

_Draco picked up the gun and held up the empty clip. “You weren’t counting.”_

_“And that only counts if they have a full magazine.” Hermione retorted, binding their prisoner and casting a stasis charm on him. “You still got shot.” her eyes leveled on the blooming stain on his clothes. “Pansy’s going to kill us.”_

_“What Pansy doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” he muttered, summoning the broom once more. “Let’s go before the rest show. We don’t need them yet.”_

_Hermione rounded Draco and sighed at the sight of his shoulder-it wasn’t bloody. “The bullet’s still in there.” she used her wand to cut his already ruined shirt a bit more and parted the fabric, grimacing at the wound, the blood smearing across her hands. “We should-”_

_“We’ll get it out later.” he snapped, casting a silent disillusionment charm on their trapped Death Eater. “The Department doesn’t have clearance to be in Greece, so if their ministry catches us here there’ll be hell to pay.”_

_“We’ve been here for three weeks, they’re bound to know something’s up.”_

_“I’d rather not find out what they do to vigilantes.”_

_Hermione glared. “We’re hardly vigilantes-”_

_“Government sanctioned criminals, then. I don’t need a lecture on semantics.”_

_“Maybe you do.” she glared, casting a leviosa on Avery’s unconscious form. “It’d knock you down a few pegs.”_

_“Let’s just go. We’re wasting time.” Draco climbed back on the broom and gestured for her to follow. “You can lecture me later.”_

_“Douchebag.” it was a low noise, one that signalled she wasn’t done but had to be for time’s sake._

Hermione blinked away the memory, and saw Draco doing the same. “What the fuck was that?” 

“You think I know?” 

The memory only brought more of a mess upon her-it didn’t make sense that they’d be hunting down a Death Eater in Greece. No sense at all. The fact that they were working together-in their own time, well that was even more vexing. The fact that their minds had drawn the memory out was confusing all its own. Hermione hadn’t remembered that many details, not before. Not without Draco’s interference. There was still something missing, the memory was too rushed, too broken to tell the whole story. 

“Let me see yours.” 

Slowly, Draco shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“It could be important.”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t move, either. 

“I’m not going to be mad.” it was a soft tone, one she didn’t even realize she put on. “Or scared or whatever it is you think-”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” he cut her off. 

“Then what is it?”

The silence dragged on and on, and Hermione was sure she’d have to speak, but he finally found the words to break the silence. “What if it was me?” He sounded forlorn and grief stricken behind the facade of his not caring tone and Hermione’s mood plummeted. It was possible, but she doubted it-after seeing her own memory, after feeling the slight panic at seeing him hurt, she knew that it wasn’t unfounded, her trust in him, her reliance. They were friends-or something, but not enemies. Not anymore. Hell, she could discern the slight changes in his tone to pick out what exactly he was feeling. _They weren’t enemies._

“I’d remember that.” she said. “I’d hate you or something-I’m sure.”

“How can you be?”

“Because I’ve been questioning my apparent trust in you since we walked through the great hall-it didn’t make sense that I’d just throw the past away so easily.” she answered honestly-her feelings towards him had confounded her since the beginning. They’d been friendly since the start of their appearance in 1944 with no explanation. “I don’t know why, but I do. The memories might explain why.”

“I’m only agreeing because I know you won’t drop this.”

“If it comes back to bite me in the ass, I’ll only blame myself.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Ignoring his cryptic tone, Hermione raised her wand and readied herself. “Ready?”

All she received was a slight nod. 

_“Legilimens.”_

_“Behind you!”_

_A flash of a curse and Hermione’s angry tone. “I saw him, numbnuts.”_

_“Didn’t seem like it.”_

_The wall next to them shook, the debris raining down on them from above. Draco knew that it was only a matter of time until the whole building collapsed, but they weren’t done; they couldn’t leave a mission unfinished. There were still hostiles in the area and they were outmanned, outgunned-literally, and outwanded-if that was a word. It seemed they might have to let go of their pride and get the hell out soon._

_“Where the hell is Zabini?”_

_“Knowing him, long gone.” he muttered, peering around a crate and aiming at the two squibs under Zabini’s control. Both were armed with heavy artillery-far too heavy for the likes of Draco and Hermione. They were expecting far worse forms of interference for their operation, not two infiltrators. “Exfil in five.” he squeezed the trigger and watched a bullet tear through the bigger squib's ankle, sending him to the ground._

_“What? No!”_

_Draco eyed Hermione. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he reloaded the pistol, silently cursing the witch._

_“We can’t just_ leave.”

_“We can and will if we can’t complete the mission without backup. No one’s going to get here in time.”_

_“So we’re just going to let them all die?”_

_“Granger, they’re only sphinxes, it’s not like they’re going extinct.”_

_Hermione spun around the crate and severed the chain holding the chandelier, the heap of rusted metal crashing down and knocking over the remaining squib. “They’re innocent.”_

_“Not if Zabini’s had his hands on them.” Draco muttered, taking another shot at a faceless insurgent. “You know as well as I do that he’s not the collector type.”_

_“Well I don’t see a way out of here unless you plan on taking the walls down.” Hermione muttered, sending more hexes towards the enemy. “The only way out is through.”_

_“Then we’ll go through.” he grit out, taking another three shots and watching a wizard fall to the ground. “Cover.”_

_Without waiting for a reply, he crossed the room, Hermione’s hexes distracting the Death Eaters long enough for him to station himself behind another crate to shoot from. They had to clear the way out, which happened to be the only way in._

_It seemed like it took ages, and Draco was running low on ammo. He’d have to revert back to his wand soon but Hermione seemed to have things covered, sending hexes and curses from her place behind the crate he’d left._

_“I think that’s all of them.”_

_Draco cast a detection spell, waiting for it to reveal anyone hiding or lying in wait, but it yielded nothing. “We need to leave before Zabini sends more.”_

_Hermione only glared before standing, her wand drawn in front of her. “We’re getting them out.”_

_“Gryffindors.” he muttered under his breath, following after her. The hallway was empty, the lights flickering and buzzing overhead as Hermione checked doors, opening and closing them after deeming them useless to the mission-well her whole idea about saving sphinxes was useless to the mission. They’d been sent in to do recon but their intel was bad, sending them into an ambush of sorts._

_“They’re in here.” she breathed, peeking through the window, her hand already on the doorknob._

_“Granger, wait-”_

_A shot sounded and Hermione jumped back, hissing in pain. “Motherfucker-”_

_“I was going to say it could have been a trap.” he shook his head, staring at the blood but not moving. It affected him far too much for him to be able to do anything-it was almost like he'd gone into shock._

_She glared. “Maybe start off with that next time.” her hand went to her thigh, trying to staunch the blood as she examined the hole in the door. “Fucking shotgun booby trap-who the hell does that? That’s only in the movies.”_

_“We need to leave now.” he eyed the blood, her leg. He'd shaken himself out of his stupor._

_“Yeah no shit, Sherlock.” she muttered, twisting the doorknob and pushing the door open, staying well away from the doorway until she was sure nothing else was going to happen. “Why the fuck did Death Eaters need to discover guns? Why?”_

_“Because wands are traceable.”_

_“It was rhetorical, thanks.” she grit out, limping into the room and stopping dead in her tracks. “Oh fucking christ...”_

_Draco surveyed the room, disgust swirling deep in his gut. The animals were hardly sphinxes. Hardly anything, really. Their body parts had been warped-genetically, not surgically, but this was anything but natural._

_“What the fuck-” Hermione breathed, stepping closer, but Draco pulled her back._

_Some had wings, leathery like a dragon. Others had large tails coated in some kind of exoskeleton with stingers similar to a scorpion’s. Some even had human faces. Most were sleeping-sedated, probably, but some were slowly blinking awake, cat eyes shining in the fluorescent light._

_“He’s crossbred them with Manticores.”_

_“Why?”_

_Draco eyed the desk and started gathering files. “We can find out later, but if they wake up I’m sure they’ll be able to escape if they truly wanted to. Their master is gone.”_

_“What do we do with them?” Hermione’s gaze was still glued to the cages lining the room, at the mutated creatures to be used for some kind of attack if the intel they’d received was anything to go by._

_“We’ll have to rig the place, there’s no other way.”_

_Startling into action, Hermione helped to gather the files, ransacking the drawers and shrinking things down to fit in her pockets. “This is sickening.” she muttered, staring at the paperwork but not truly seeing it. Her blood was getting everywhere, her wound apparently forgotten after the shock of the deformed beings Zabini had created._

_“We need to get you out.” Draco told her, shoving the files into his pockets. “You’ve lost too much blood.”_

_“I’ll be fine.”_

_“Now’s not the time to be stubborn, Granger.”_

_“I’ll be fine.”_

_Draco glared at her. “I’m not training another partner because you were too stubborn to stop working.”_

_“I’m not gonna die-”_

_“Let’s not take the chance.” he interrupted, catching her just as she stumbled. “Can you walk?”_

_Hermione’s head lolled and Draco sighed, shook his head at her. She’d lost too much blood and worked herself too hard with the hexes earlier. His priority now was to get her out, get her far away before he blew up the compound, erased the evidence they were there in the first place. It didn’t take much to pick her up and haul her past the apparition line before disapparating to a safehouse._

_She woke when they appeared in a living room of sorts after he set her down on the couch. Draco dug a first aid kit from a cabinet and sat down._

_“You need to stop pushing yourself.”_

_“I don’t like guns” she murmured, eyes closed. “They’re too fucking loud.” cracking open one eye, she stared at Draco, exhaustion clear on her face. “Are you going to help or do I have to call Pansy?”_

The memory ended and Hermione blinked away the stupor her mind had gone into. 

“That made everything more confusing, I think.”

Draco only nodded, staring at nothing in particular. “It’s late.”

The clock read one in the morning, and Hermione itched to stop him from leaving. She didn’t want to talk, not yet; but she didn’t want him to go either. Not yet. They were partners before this-it explained their apparent camaraderie, but not the rest-not really. 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to sleep in the bathtub again.”

He only shrugged as he stood, one eyebrow raised as if to say ‘what are you going to do about it?’

“Just conjure a bed, it can’t be comfortable sleeping in there.”

Draco didn’t say anything, so Hermione transfigured it for him, a four poster similar to the one he’d favored in the beginning. 

“You don’t have to do this, Granger.”

“I want to.” she told him, clearing off her own bed. “So stop being an idiot before I change my mind.”

* * *

**_Sunday, September 24th, 1944_ **

**09:21 A.M.**

He didn’t sleep in the bed. It was both a punishment and a means of escape to sleep in the bathtub. He hated it, but Draco hated listening to her pained whimpers more. Things were different now. He’d been able to push them from his mind before, but not anymore, not after she’d seen inside his head-watched him tear her apart. For all he knew, she could be reliving his mind’s own twisted hellscape. But then he was lying to himself. Her sleeping terrors weren’t the reason for his locking himself away in a homemade prison. No. It wasn’t that. Not really.

Her screaming didn’t bother him so much as what she’d said- the way she dismissed everything evil about him as if it was old hat. Her words shook him; startled him far more than they should have. They rattled around in his head for hours, a constant loop of ‘I’m scared because I’m _not_ scared.’ 

It was what he wanted to hear, deep down, but part of him doubted the sincerity; said Hermione was only saying it to keep the peace between them, to keep him around. He didn’t want her fear, he wanted her approval-which was selfish to ask for. They were polar opposites, one borne of darkness and one born of everything good in the world. 

Hermione had a conscience. 

He did not. 

Well, that was a lie. He shouldered the guilt of what he’d done; it was his own twisted punishment, being forced to remember how much of a monster he could be, but not because of _what_ he did. Yes, his subjects were deserving of what they got, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. 

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? 

He _did_ like it. 

The way they screamed at him to stop, that they’d never do it again, that they promised to go far _far_ away and never come back. The way they got what they deserved. 

He felt guilty because he _liked_ the way a blade cut through flesh, the way his hands came away stained red. They way they begged for mercy. _The way he broke people._ He liked it and she would never understand, never look at him the same way if she knew. Even after claiming she wasn’t afraid of him, Hermione was still wary of him. He could tell by that look in her eyes. It was different from the way she used to see him- she was doubting herself just as much as he was. Maybe she was insane, like he’d thought, like he’d told her. 

Or maybe it was the situation. 

They were forced to rely on each other. She didn’t have Saint Potter and the Weasel around to help uphold the Gryffindor moral code. They probably had one; it was a long list if it did exist. Draco knew that he was all she had; because that’s what she was to him. The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar, which led back to that stupid fucking memory loss problem they both had. The amnesia could factor into her trusting him, but Draco didn’t know what would forge such a bond between them-even after the things they’d uncovered. They were schoolyard enemies once, fought on opposite sides of the war. He couldn’t imagine anything forcing them together. For all he knew it could have been the product of the Stockholm syndrome phenomena she mentioned on occasion. 

Maybe it was that.

Maybe they hallucinated the whole thing. 

Maybe they were dead. 

Maybe she didn’t see him as a threat. Maybe the witch thought the dream was only that; a dream, but he’d been able to draw a blade against skin longer than he’d been able to properly wield an Unforgivable. She’d seen Rosier, surely she remembered what he’d done with tools of convenience. It was only a matter of time until she saw him for what he truly was. They had other things to worry about outside of their inner turmoil and trust issues. Things that would require his _skillset._

Namely Riddle; who was a problem Draco wanted gone. After realizing that the Dark Lord was actively testing Hermione to join ranks, Draco was more pissed off than ever. Which was never a good thing, because that’s when he’s at his most creative. Thinking of such things wasn't helping the situation with Hermione, but Draco couldn’t help it. Too much was happening. Before, things had been simple. Routine. 

He had no routine anymore, no sense of normalcy. He'd started worrying about Hermione and anything distracting him from the guilt he felt over her seeing his true self was a welcome diversion. 

Blood and knives plagued his mind. 

His hands itched. 

It was Riddle’s fault Draco was the way he was. It was Voldemort’s fault that Draco was learning about how to torture a person instead of preparing for a job in the ministry like he should have been. Like he’d planned. He wanted to get even, he wanted to upend Riddle’s life at Hogwarts. 

His mind went back to Hermione’s ease in forgetting who he was, what he was; because it bothered the hell out of him. 

She was insane, there was no other way to put it.

There’s no other explanation as to why the fuck she wasn’t afraid of him. He’d given her no real reason to trust him, no reason to _not_ be afraid of him; the most he’d done was play along as the loyal Familiar when she went to class and the mysterious Hogsmeade wizard when he walked as himself in public. Even Draco couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t hurt her. It was twice now he’d hurt her without even trying. There would be other instances. And it wasn’t like he was a choir boy in school; he’d practically tortured the witch. 

Well he did. Psychologically-ish. 

He wasn’t a good person, he knew that much. Hermione shouldn’t want anything to do with him, especially after seeing what his mind could imagine. After knowing what he was capable of. 

Draco was pulled from his inner turmoil when the door opened and Hermione stood in the doorway, looking more annoyed than anything else. Which was good. He could deal with annoyance. It was better than the odd sadness in her eyes or the occasional flash of fear or something else he couldn’t recognize-that was something he truly couldn’t stand. It burned him, those forlorn looks she’d give him, made him feel as if he’d betrayed her somehow. He had, but he didn't need a reminder; he wasn't about to let himself forget. 

“Are you really going to lock yourself in the bathroom _every day?”_

Draco had retreated to the bathtub once more when her nightmares started. He found he couldn’t take her cries, not when it was all he heard in his nightmares now. “I see it’s useless since you keep breaking in.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Did you want to go to Hogsmeade or keep wallowing?” 

“I’d prefer both.”

“It’s one or the other, dickhead.”

“Whatever.” He muttered, brushing past her. No way in hell was he going to stay cooped up in the room, no matter how much he wanted to sulk in his pit of self loathing. He needed out.

“I was thinking...”

“That’s dangerous.” he muttered, almost out of habit. 

She only scowled. “With the memories and what Nearly Headless Nick told me the other night, I suppose-”

“What are you talking about?” 

Hermione stiffened and leaned against the doorway, rubbing her thumb against her pointer finger as if she was wearing a ring. “I thought I told you the other day.” It went without saying _which_ day in particular she was talking about. 

“You told me you hexed Riddle and then had a mental breakdown. I don’t recall anything about ghosts.” 

Hermione worried her lip between her teeth and frowned at him. “You said you’d stop bringing it up.”

He only gave her a look in reply. If she was going to keep chastising him for anything involving that night he might as well go back to the bathtub. 

“Fine, whatever. Sir Nicholas started talking to me about the Whomping Willow and asked me when it was planted.” she raised her eyebrows with a silent question but Draco didn’t say anything just yet. “1971. Isn’t that weird?”

“It’s 1944.”

“That’s what _I_ said. And then Nick just said _‘so it is’_ like that made all the sense in the world. He said we don't know what's familiar anymore. He's got a point-we don't.” she crossed her arms, looking conflicted. “anyway, I was thinking about the shit from last night, it sounds like we’re spies.”

Draco blinked. Maybe she’d truly gone mad. Spies? Them? It sounded absurd. Even more absurd than being thrown into the forties with his old nemesis. The evidence pointed to it being a possibility- _maybe,_ but it was still insane, still crazy. 

“You’re looking at me like I’m insane.”

“You just said we could be _spies.”_

Hermione shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.” she said it far too easily, like she was discussing the weather and not the fact that they _had_ forgotten things. A lot of things. _And possibly the fact that they’d been spies._ Or something. “Now, are we going to Hogsmeade or not?”

“Whatever her highness wants.” Draco muttered, shaking his head. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re a dramatic little fuck, you know that?” 

“I don’t know how you’re perceived as nice when you speak as if you were raised in a brothel all the time.” 

“They’re terms of endearment.” she replied, smirking. “Why? Does it bother you?” 

“No, I’m just not used to it-or I feel like I shouldn’t be.” He was far too used to it for it to be the product of sharing a room with her for twenty something days. “Language like that is frowned upon in my social circles.” he gave her a look. “I’d think you knew that.”

“Yeah, I gathered that since you act like a prude all the time.”

“I’m not a prude.”

“You blush when I say _fucking asshole._ That makes you a prude on some level.” she retorted, pointing when she saw his face twitch. “See? It’s like the words hurt your little pureblood ears.” 

“They don't,” he muttered. “But your voice does.”

“See? We’re almost back to normal now. We’re trading insults and everything.” she smiled evilly. “Say ‘fuck’. Go on, say it.”

“No.”

“Oh _come on.”_

“I’d rather not.”

Hermione gave him a half heated glare. “I’ll get you to say it, swear to god.”

“Which one?” 

She lobbed the nearest pillow at him and he caught it with one hand. “Whichever one damned me to live with you in close quarters.”

Their version of _normal_ was odd, but it was familiar enough for the two of them. 

**05:37 P.M.**

The Three Broomsticks Inn was busy. Far busier than it should have been. Hermione spent far too much time in Scrivenshaft's hoping to find a book on memory recovery that wasn’t in the Hogwarts library and they had lost track of time, meaning they had to eat during the dinner rush. 

Draco tried refusing, said it was fine, that they had food in the room, but Hermione insisted. He knew she was trying to rectify something between them, but all he wanted was distance from the witch; everything was only more confusing now with the implications they were partners in some kind of shadow government organization. He’d killed people in the memories. So had she. It only made things more confusing. 

It was hard to discern where his feelings for her ended. Part of him wanted to blame it on his proximity to her the past few weeks, but deep down, he knew it was something else. Something dangerous, something he didn’t want to think about. The memories from the night before had shown him things-well, feelings, rather, and it explained a fair bit. But he was still in denial. It was better to ignore the impossibility of his ‘memory’ self’s feelings. 

Turns out, he didn’t have to try to avoid the thoughts, Riddle’s appearance in the door did that for him. It was almost immediate, the way his thoughts turned to blood and iron blades. Hermione noticed the change in his posture, but she knew enough not to say anything. 

Instead of watching Riddle’s advance through the pub, he focused on the empty plates in front of them. The steak knife was serrated, dull, but it would do. For what, he didn’t really know yet. But he could think about that in place of actually murdering Riddle. Or his grandfather. Abraxas Malfoy was the underling of the day, and Draco thought it some stupid twist of fate that he be tortured this way; forced to sit and do nothing while fully aware of their intentions toward Hermione. 

He’d overheard conversations between Hermione and Abraxas, and knowing the man he became, it wouldn’t bode well. It had led to plenty of inner turmoil after he realized he couldn’t just kill his grandfather for threatening Hermione. Not when his own life would be in question. Would he fade away? Keep living life as usual? What would happen if he killed his grandfather? 

It would have been startling to think of such things had he not been thrown into a more confusing situation. Normal people didn’t think about killing their grandparents. 

Well Riddle did, but it wasn’t the same. 

Draco hoped. 

Well, Riddle wasn’t a normal person, so there was that to think about as well. 

“Hermione, mind if we sit with you two? It’s a bit full in here.” 

Hazel met mercury and there was a silent conversation, one that hardly translated into true words, only shared feelings of ire and annoyance. Hermione turned to Abraxas and didn’t bother to smile. “You can have the table, I was just about to go back to the castle-”

“Nonsense! Let me buy you a drink, there’s no need for you to leave so soon.”

Draco saw the discomfort clear on her face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced with some version of friendliness. “If you insist.”

“We do.” Said Riddle, speaking for the first time. “If that’s alright with you?” his dark eyes went to Draco, a challenge in his gaze. 

“No problem at all.” he replied, keeping his tone plain, courteous. He had a plan, one that would draw the spotlight from Hermione and onto himself. He’d already dealt with Riddle once before, when he was a stupid kid. He was older now, smarter. He knew what to expect. What to do. _'I pledge allegiance to the Dark Lord'_ and all that. 

It wouldn’t take much, and he knew that Riddle was planning something. The bastard didn’t have a true reason to bother them in Hogsmeade. The only reason Riddle hadn’t made a move yet was because he wanted to get back at Hermione by way of her emotions. It was a classic move for the fucker. 

Violence was more than the physical, sometimes it was psychological. 

Draco sat silently as Riddle took the seat next to Hermione and Abraxas sat down next to his grandson, unaware of the hilarity of the situation, it was absurd, completely absurd. Especially after Draco thought up a decent half-plan. Now he was just waiting. 

“You surprised me, Hermione.” said Riddle, his tone slightly cheerful. “I can’t say I’ve been hexed in a bathroom before.”

“Do you make it a habit to forgo basic self defense?” Hermione countered, the annoyance clear in her voice. “Or do you underestimate all the girls?” 

Abraxas stifled laughter behind his hand and nearly shrivelled under Riddle’s glare. “It was creative, I’ll give you that. Where did you learn it?” 

“A book.” she answered, eyeing the door, but she was trapped. They’d taken a booth on a whim, but Draco would prefer high top tables from now on-there was no way to be trapped at one. If he or Hermione wanted to leave, they’d have to climb over the table. Or push Riddle and Abraxas out of the way. Or apparate-but that wouldn’t work, not in a business. 

Riddle smirked, the expression looking wrong on his face. “What was it? Medio Ignis?” he flicked his wand towards the room, the dim chattering of the pub fading away. He’d cast a privacy spell. 

Hermione stayed silent, seeming to follow Riddle’s train of thought. Draco knew what was coming. Voldemort loved the whole ‘eye for an eye’ thing, as cliche as it was. 

“Latin for ‘fire inside’, am I correct?” The man drawled, almost teasing. 

Draco knew it was doing the exact opposite of what he’d warned the witch about, but things were different now. He didn’t care if he got hurt, as long as she didn’t. That was clear to him now. “Did Dippet get rid of the latin curriculum?” he asked, allowing his tone to fall into the teasing sneer from his younger years. “Or was that rhetorical?” 

Black irises bored into him and Draco was too angry to be unnerved at the sight. “I was just making sure I heard correctly.” It was a threatening tone, one that a younger Draco would have cowered at. But he wasn’t the same, not anymore.

His nerves felt singed, like the morsmordre spell was leeching its way up his entire body and not just where the dark mark stained his skin. If he wasn’t used to the feeling he might have flinched, might have reacted, but pain had never really bothered him, not that much. It was suspicious, that realization. All pain was muted here, or at least it seemed to be. Like in a dream. 

Hermione knew what had just happened, knew that Riddle had just used the curse on Draco. He was only waiting for an excuse to fight back, a signal, or something. Normally he’d ask forgiveness, not permission, but things between them were strained enough. Even if it was just a form of self defense. Draco raised his eyebrows in a silent question, to which Hermione nodded, her face carefully blank. 

The wooden handle of the knife was easy enough to grab, and it was even easier to pin Abraxas’ hand to the table. The serrated blade found a temporary home between the first and second metacarpals of the future Malfoy patriarch. Riddle seemed confused for a fraction of a second when the wrong person cried out in pain. 

“Do you always skip foreplay?” Draco asked, one eyebrow raised. “You jumped right in with the bodily harm.” he smiled at Riddle, ready to twist the knife if he needed to. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Abraxas grit out, looking at war with himself; probably trying to figure out if he should try to cast with his nondominant hand or fight his way out the muggle way. He was stuck either way, the pain too extreme to try and move. Draco had learned long ago that wizards were more bothered by physical pain. It was different from the magically inflicted kind. 

“Oh calm down, it’s only a flesh wound.” Draco tutted, twisting the blade the slightest bit. “I haven’t touched bone yet.” and he hadn’t, he’d aimed for the fleshy part of Abraxas’ hand between the thumb and pointer finger. All it would take was a decent twist of his hand and the serrations would scrape bone. 

_“Finite incantatem.”_ Came Hermione’s voice, but she wasn’t looking to Draco to remove the knife, not yet. Draco didn't mind. He never really liked his father’s side of the family. Any of them, really. Not after his less than normal childhood. The flames eating at his nerve endings died off and he relaxed the slightest bit, but he was still wound too tight to let his guard down. “Did you come here just to curse my friend?” Hermione asked, her wand slightly angled toward Riddle. “Or was there something else you wanted?” 

Riddle was smiling. The bastard was smiling and Draco would have been disgusted had he not seen it already. His endeavors in the dungeons had drawn praise from the Dark Lord on multiple occasions. It was the reaction he wanted, because the spotlight was off of Hermione now. 

“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. You’re always on your own in the castle, thought I’d see what keeps him in your company.” Riddle eyed the knife, the blood staining the table. There wasn’t much, it’d come later. “He’s very interesting.”

“C-call off your dog, Granger.” it was barely more than a pained grunt, but it was intelligible enough. 

Hermione frowned slightly. “You know Abraxas, it’s not very smart to call him names when he’s got a knife stuck in your hand.” 

Holding his free hand to his heart in some theatrically over-exaggerated flourish, Draco smiled. “Why Granger, how kind of you to point out such a thing.” he twisted the handle, his face unflinching when steel grated against bone. He watched his grandfather’s untrapped hand flail about, his face twisted into a pained grimace.

Hermione pursed her lips and shook her head disapprovingly. “That’s going to warrant a trip to the nurse.”

“Fucking _bitch-”_

Draco twisted the knife again, wishing he could smirk at the reaction the action yielded, but he kept his face plain on purpose. It was easy to play the part of the bloodthirsty attack dog. He’d done it before, he could keep up the charade. He’d deal with the self loathing later. 

“Are you done with your assessment of my company or do we have to suffer through your presence for some other reason?” Hermione asked, her eyes trained on Riddle. 

The young Dark Lord’s eyes hadn’t left Draco’s hand, the one twisting the knife. It was like the blood had hypnotized him, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. He was always like that; favoring evidence of violence, be it a pained expression or blood. That was fine, Draco dealt in pain. As long as the subject was deserving. 

Abraxas was more than deserving, related by blood or not. 

“We’ll talk later.” Riddle stated, his eyes snapping away from the mess on the table. “The things I wish to speak to you about shouldn’t be heard by a lady of Hermione’s standing.”

The witch snorted at that, stifling a laugh behind her hand.

“No you won’t.” Draco deadpanned. “Good luck trying though.”

“We’ll see.” he nodded towards the knife. “Would you be so kind as to clean up your mess?” 

Draco shrugged. “Only because you asked so nicely.” he drew his wand and sent a silent _episkey_ towards Abraxas’ hand, watching the skin heal around the blade. It’d be painful to remove later with the serrations embedded into healed bone. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Abraxas grit out, staring at his hand, now free from the table but not the steak knife. 

“Consider it a parting gift.” Draco leered. 

Hermione laughed, a genuine one. “How considerate of you.”

“On your way then.” Draco waved them off. “Unless you wanted to buy Granger that drink?” 

Abraxas hurried off without another word, his good hand steadying the blade and Riddle stood, his eyes flickering between Hermione and Draco. “An interesting choice of company, Hermione.”

**06:13 P.M.**

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Draco scoffed. “How many times have I told you that? And how many times did you listen?” 

“So why not take your own goddamn advice?” Hermione asked, ducking out of the way of a low hanging branch. “He thinks you’re _interesting,_ I’d think that’s worse than his asking to _accompany_ me everywhere.”

“That was the point.” Draco muttered, staring straight ahead. They’d been walking in an odd silence through the forbidden forest on the way back to the castle. “His focus is off you now.” 

Hermione rounded on him, glaring with her hands on her hips. “So?” it was petulant, almost challenging. “You’ve been hiding in a bathtub for the past three days and suddenly you’re all gung-ho on facing your fears?” 

“I haven’t been afraid of Riddle for a long time, Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, heer confrontational side coming out to play. “Oh really? Then what the fuck _are_ you afraid of?” 

He was towering over her all of a sudden-did he get taller in the past ten minutes? He stepped closer and closer, forcing her back, her shoes dragging through the dead leaves littering the floor of the forest. A tree stopped her retreat and he crowded around her, all broad shoulders and height. The treebark dug into her back, but she was too busy staring up at Draco to notice the pain. 

“Do you really want to know?” He asked in a low voice, standing much too close. _Too close._ Surely it was wrong to play with fire like this. He was Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater. She’d just watched him put a knife through his own blood’s hand. Yet something deep in her mind said no, this _isn’t_ Draco Malfoy-not the one she knew in school, this is a different man, one that’s grown up and matured beyond his teenage self. It was irksome that she believed it with no real proof, no evidence aside from their time spent together arguing and bickering over useless things. All she had were those fleeting memories and the innate sense of trust she felt towards him. And the fact that she wasn’t bothered by their proximity before. 

But now? 

Now she was rethinking things. 

She’d been at war with herself since leaving the Three Broomsticks. It was back and forth between calling him a necessary evil and just plain evil. She’d been making excuses for him since _that night,_ but could she really justify his blatant ease in causing pain? Was that why he’d insisted on the distance? To spare her the trouble? 

Even with her inner turmoil, she still wanted him close- for some godforsaken reason she wanted him _closer._ Closer than he was. It only confused her more, dragging her mind in lazy nonsensical circles. 

“Yes” she told him, her voice coming out far too quiet, frozen in his gaze. His eyes were doing that thing again- where they were filled with all kinds of emotions but his face was a plain mask hiding everything underneath. He only ever looked at _her_ like this, she’d noticed. Everyone else was awarded a cold stare; he was anything but cold now. 

“Losing you.” he stated, his voice still low. “So if you think I’m going to stand by and let Riddle make you one of his puppets, you’re delusional.”

“It goes two ways.” she replied, her voice raising with her temper. “What makes you think you can just sacrifice yourself?” 

Draco stared down at her, his expression softening slightly, but not by much. He was still wearing that mask of indifference. “I’m already damned.” he told her. “-Hardly a sacrifice.”

“That’s not how _I_ see it.” Hermione argued, poking him in the chest with a finger to further her point. “You don’t get to run.” another jab to his chest, but he didn’t move. “You don’t get to take my place.” She didn’t want him to leave, to go anywhere. Inner turmoil aside, she cared about the douchebag-quite a bit. “You don’t get to leave me.”

A slight scoff escaped him, like it was absurd to think he’d ever leave. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, Granger.”

He was still close-too close and yet not close enough. Hermione wanted to remind herself of what he’d done not even an hour ago, to put distance between them. A larger part of herself wanted to pull him closer. She did neither, a memory dredging to the forefront of her mind. She might as well sabotage herself now since they were _kind of_ fighting again. 

“Why didn’t you kiss me back?” It was a quiet question, and she almost hated how weak she sounded. 

Draco moved to step back, but she stopped him, holding him in place by the front of his shirt. He took one look at her face and knew she wasn’t going to let him get away with ignoring the question. “You were on the verge of a mental breakdown.” 

She stared up at him, her mind pulling question after question until she found the right one. “What if I kissed you now?” 

Draco raised one eyebrow. “I’d ask if you were on the verge of another _episode.”_

If she wasn’t standing in the forbidden forest, she would have thrown something at him. “I’m being serious.” she muttered, eyes narrowed. There were two sides warring in her mind and the same one won the argument every fucking time. She refused to ignore her instincts, not when they were so strong. She should hate him, or barely tolerate him, but she didn’t. The idea that she’d forgotten things nagged at the back of her mind and she chose to pull on the thread. 

“So am I.” he replied, eyes darting all around her face, pausing on her lips. “I’m hardly good for you.”

“I don’t believe that.” 

“You should.” 

Hermione pulled him closer, bunching the fabric of his shirt in her fist. “Draco?” A flash of surprise crossed his features and she realized she’d just called him by his first name. 

“Hmm?” 

“Stop sabotaging yourself and kiss me.” 

“Are you su-”

She cut him off before he could finish. “What the hell did I just say?” 

Draco stood stock still, staring down at her for so long that Hermione wanted to run far, far away and avada herself for making herself look stupid. She looked away, a scowl on her face and loosened her grip on his shirt. She was trying to decide on a hex or a lecture when he used one finger to tilt her chin to look at him. 

“Are you _sure?”_ it was a ragged whisper. 

“I swear to fuck if you ask me that again I’m kicking your ass. _Yes.” S_ he was sure. It was simple really. 

Hermione expected him to be nervous, because he seemed to be doubting the situation, himself, everything, but the kiss was far from timid. It was like a torrential downpour of emotions she would never be able to untangle. In her mind, it wasn’t even that shocking, it was like this was expected, _familiar_ and good fucking god did she realize what she’d been missing. It was him, all of him, from the way his hands trailed down her body-across her neck, to the way his mouth worked against hers almost hard enough to bruise. 

No. 

Hard enough to bruise. 

Draco was a presence in every other situation, _this_ was no exception. 

They broke apart for air far too soon for her liking and she almost whined at the loss of contact but he moved faster than she could complain, picking her up and helping her to wrap her legs around his waist, putting them at eye level. She didn’t even notice the tree cutting into her back, not that it really mattered, _he_ was all that mattered, all she really cared about in the moment. 

It was almost instinct to kiss just under his jaw, to drag her teeth over the skin and soothe it with her tongue. 

_“Fuck...”_ it was low and guttural from his throat and the force of it travelled straight through Hermione, sending her stomach into a complicated bout of somersaults.

“I made you say it” she whispered, a smile on her face. 

“Don’t start that now.” he murmured, resting his forehead on her shoulder, his breathing harsh. 

“Say it again.” she almost purred the words. “Please?” 

“Why?” 

“I like it.” she kissed the part of his neck she had new access to and closed her eyes at the low sounds he made. “It’s like I’m corrupting you.” she whispered, a teasing tone in her voice. 

“You’re a twisted witch.” he deadpanned, leaning his head back to meet her eyes. 

“You like it.” she smirked, cupping his jaw and bringing him closer, into another forceful kiss. It was slower then the first, less needy but just as satisfying and Hermione wanted to melt into him. It was fine, great, spectacular, and then-

“Oh! Hello...”

Of course, an interruption, because she could never catch a break. 

Hermione jerked backwards, more out of surprise than anything but her cheeks still burned red with embarrassment at being caught. In the forbidden forest. Of all the places, it had to be the least romantic-but then this wasn’t romance, not really. It was- well, _a mess,_ but she didn’t care. She’d just kissed Draco Malfoy. 

Allison and Elizabeth and- _McGonnagall_ were standing a few yards away, the Slytherin counterparts looking strangely smug. 

“Fucking son of a-” Hermione buried her face in Draco’s neck for a moment before his grip on her loosened and she was back standing on solid ground. “Hi…” she squeaked out, not really knowing what the hell else to say. Aside from what she really _wanted_ to say, which consisted of a certain four letters and the word ‘off’ but she had to be polite. 

“Hermione, fancy seeing you here.” Allison teased, walking closer. “I was just out for a walk and decided to take a shortcut. Happened to run into these two. Who were _also_ on a walk.” she winked with far too much effort. 

“I’m sure that’s exactly what they were doing.” Hermione replied, eyeing McGonagall and Elizabeth’s clothes-their shirts misbuttoned and hair a mess. It was fucking weird. This was hell, she was in hell. “Am I dead?” she asked low enough for only Draco to hear. “I think I’m dead.” 

“Could be a possibility” Draco spoke low as well, eyeing McGonagall, who still held herself the same way as in their time. “I don’t know if I want to applaud or run screaming.” 

Hermione coughed to cover her laughter and averted her eyes from her disheveled future professor-or past professor. “Er, I’ll leave you to, uh, walk, then.” 

Allison waved a hand dismissively. “Oh nonsense, stay a while!” she eyed Draco. “Who’s this?”

“Draco” was all she managed to say. It seemed wrong to call him Draco _Snape_ -even though he’d explained that when put on the spot, it was the best fake last name he could come up with that wouldn’t have a history behind it should someone check his story. Or his origins. Still, it was weird, almost blasphemy. Snape was Snape. 

“Just the one name? Interesting.” Allison smiled, leaning against a tree with her arms crossed.

“You have to introduce yourself, I can’t do it-”

“We could run-”

“No we can’t-”

“What are they going to do? Invite us on their _walk?”_

Allison perked up, Draco had spoken in a whisper, but she heard all the same. “What a splendid idea!”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, if any are noticed, please let me know.  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> [Chapter word count: 12,000]  
> I feel evil it's been a hot minute


	10. Parallels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you finally figure out how to grow a conscience?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter word count: 9,700]

* * *

_9/25/44 _

_Diary,_

_Abraxas will need to be punished. He has broken one of the rules set by myself and I do not take insubordination lightly. I may allow Hermione to choose the punishment, as it involves her. Maybe she will change her mind about myself and the others, see the methods to my ‘madness’. If her being around that Draco character has shown me anything, it’s that she doesn't mind violence. It may help discern which is more valuable, though I am swayed by the witch already._

_It will be difficult to decide._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/26/44 _

_Diary,_

_Dumbledore has been suspicious of my actions lately. He thinks I don’t notice the way that wretched house elf follows me about the castle but I_ _do._ _The oaf can watch all he wants, he will never prove anything._

_Grindelwald is making waves with his movement. Soon, he will be a problem. It’s disgraceful, the way he insists upon thrusting our world into the light, unveiling it to muggles. They are less than us, and their spawn prove to be dangerous. I have earned my place in this world, but there are others-half bloods, mudbloods, that do not try hard enough to obtain any true respect in this world. It is simply a game to them, a glorified vacation from their sad reality._

_There has been word of Dumbledore intervening, but I don’t put much stock in the man._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/27/44 _

_Diary,_

_It was easy enough to convince Slughorn to allow me to choose a partner for myself._

_I need more time with the witch, and I have seen the way she excels in her schooling, almost as if there’s something for her to prove. What that is, I do not know._

_I_ _will_ _find out._

 _Choosing her was an easy choice, as no one else seems to share my talents. She is_ _not_ _better than myself, but close enough to be competent. Far more competent than the oafs that I allow into my presence. Honestly, I don’t know why I bother, not when there are better candidates out there._

_I can only imagine what her reaction will be._

_T.R._

* * *

**_Sunday, September 24th, 1944_ **

He shouldn’t have done it. 

He knew that. 

But it hadn’t stopped him. Not when she’d asked, not when she was _right there,_ not when she was all he wanted. 

Draco didn’t have time enough to hate himself for giving in before they were interrupted-well, cockblocked, for lack of a better word- by his friends’ grandmothers and future transfiguration professor. It was mortifying, but a blessing in disguise-sort of. He couldn’t do anything else, _wouldn’t._ Because it’d only end in tears. Or death. Or another depressive episode featuring a bathtub. It was hard to tell, but Draco knew it wouldn’t bode well for either of them if anything else happened. 

That’s not to say he _didn’t_ want something to happen. Because he did. 

He was deluded to think she’d feel the same, feel anything for him because he knew- _he knew_ she was… well he _didn’t_ know. But ‘right in the head’ wasn’t on the list of things that currently described Hermione Granger. Not if she was kissing _him_ like _that._

It had happened suddenly, abruptly, the way his feelings developed. He hadn’t really noticed at first, things between them had seemed easy, practiced when they first found themselves in the storm of shit that was 1944. The nightmares and the recovered memories-well those had jostled something loose in his mind, an insatiable need for the woman, which had only confused him. Draco had done nothing to deserve her affections. She was too kindhearted, too pure, too righteous. They were polar opposites and if they ever got back to where they belonged, he knew she’d leave. There was someone better out there; someone who wasn’t damned and tainted. Someone who could love her properly. 

It was selfish and he knew better than to hope for anything more, but he’d be damned if he didn’t take what she’d give him. Eventually they’d find their way back, their way out, and it’d be over. He was sure of it. Whatever _this_ was, it wouldn’t continue in their own time. It was stupid, dangerous, and a lot of other things, but he didn’t care. 

If he fell for Granger, so be it. 

Well no, there was no danger of falling any farther. He’d plunged headfirst off a cliff some time ago. Draco was as good as hers, no doubt about it. Memory loss be damned, he knew how he felt about her, knew that it’d never work. 

He was fucked. 

In the forest, it’d been easy enough to make up some lie about walking Draco ‘home’ in order to escape the three women. He could tell Hermione was paranoid about being found out. It was the way she chewed her bottom lip and eyed the trees swaying in the wind, one hand in her pocket like something wicked was waiting for them.

He’d learned her mannerisms, which only plunged him deeper into a pit of _Granger Granger Granger_ because he’d never paid that much attention to anyone else. He hadn’t cared. 

There was no reason to make excuses; he was self centered. He’d sacrificed his teenage years for his parents and look where that got him. It was instinct to only worry about himself. He’d never thought about other people, as bad as it sounded. He lived in his own universe, everything revolving around Draco Malfoy. The witch had thrown his world off axis, slipped through the cracks when he wasn’t looking. 

She was ruining him and he’d let her, so long as she’d keep him around. 

**09:17 P.M.**

Their room had always been small, but the walls seemed to be closing in on him now. They’d used the passageway that fed into the shrieking shack, both of them questioning the tunnel’s existence enough to test it out, to make sure it was truly there. It was, and they’d snuck into the Slytherin dorms without any real issues. Riddle was elsewhere, the mark on Draco’s arm calm for once. 

It left the both of them to stare at each other in an odd silence. Things were calm but heavy between them, thousands of words barred from making themselves known. It was a game of chicken to see who would speak first, who would move. 

Hermione toed her shoes off and made her way to the bathroom, summoning her pajamas-which were hardly pajamas, merely an oversized tee shirt and sweatpants, but she’d told him to fuck off when he’d pointed out that they weren’t sleeping clothes but raggedy casual wear. It was just another argument they found themselves in. 

When the bathroom door shut, Draco changed into sleepwear of his own, plaid pajama pants and a clean sweatshirt, because he had yet to find some way to keep warm aside from layering on half a closet. Heating charms didn’t work, and ignoring the cold only hurt in the long run, keeping him from sleeping. 

He was in the midst of refolding clothes delivered by the Hogwarts elves when she reappeared, her hair wild about her face, free from the confines of the sloppy updo she favored most days. Draco liked her best this way; carefree and wild looking, the opposite of everything he’d ever known. In some effort to push his true feelings back behind the wall he’d built, he went back to chores, the distraction necessary. For some reason he forwent his wand. 

“Did you mean it?” it went unsaid she was talking about what he’d said before pinning her against a tree and trying to show her what she meant to him without speaking. There would never be words. Never the right ones. He always did better with actions. 

Draco paused, turned to look at her. “Every word.” He wasn’t going to lie to her, but he wasn’t going to delude himself into thinking he had a chance outside this room, outside this situation. She was too good for him. He’d never deserve her. But that didn’t stop him from hoping. From thinking about what _could_ be; not what should be. 

Hoping was fine, _doing_ was something else. He’d ignored his feelings until a few hours ago, and now he was thinking about actually drowning himself in the bathtub, because he was too close. Any farther and he’d never be able to get over her, not after a taste of what could have been. He would never deserve to be near her- even if he’d paid for all of his sins. 

She crossed the room in a few steps, staring up at him, searching his face for a lie that wasn’t there. “Really?” 

“Really.”

He could see the relief crash over Hermione’s features; like she’d been expecting him to tell her she meant nothing to him. The daft witch. She stepped closer, and Draco felt his back hit the dresser. It was instinct to keep her at arm's length, to avoid anything happening because it’d hurt. He didn’t know who would suffer more. 

“You’re doing it again.” she stated, her voice quiet, almost meek. 

Draco’s brow furrowed. “Doing what?” 

“You’re running.” she stated, staring up at him, her hands idle at her sides, probably itching to grab him by the front of his shirt or find something else to busy her hands with. “You always run.”

“I’ve hurt you enough. I won’t do it again.” He’d rather die. Distance was best. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was the responsible thing to do; not that he had enough willpower to truly stay away. She was carving him down to bone, upsetting any semblance of self control. 

“Again?” she asked, crossing her arms. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The mask he always wore dropped from his features and a muscle in his jaw ticked as if he didn’t know if he should say it. But he did, because she asked and _maybe_ it’d mean she would put distance between them, he sure as fuck couldn’t. Not anymore, if he was being honest with himself. “That word on your arm is there because of me.”

Hermione laughed at that, really laughed, because it’s what she did in uncomfortable situations. “What, you like to put on a curly wig and pretend to be your insane aunt on the weekends?” 

“No, I just show her how to use knives, tricky things, those.” he muttered, side stepping her and finding something else to do, but there wasn’t much in a ten by twelve room. It didn’t matter much anyway, since she rounded on him, wearing the expression that said ‘I’m going to throw something at you’. It was easy enough to duck. 

It was a shoe this time, so he’d pissed her off pretty badly. 

“You’re an idiot.”

He tossed the shoe back to its place at the door. “I’m well aware” it was mostly under his breath but she heard- if the look on her face was anything to go by. 

“You aren’t responsible for your family’s crimes.”

Draco wanted to laugh, to call her a fool. “I’m sure my own are damning enough.” He’d have a place in hell right next to his aunt, maybe Riddle. It was something that kept him up at night. “You shouldn’t want anything to do with me.” 

“I don’t care what you think.” she retorted. “I don’t care what you’ve done.”

“You should.” he replied with some anger; he was trying to push her away, because that was the safe thing to do. Keep her far away so she couldn’t get caught in the fallout when things inevitably went to shit. 

“You’re so damaged, you can’t accept forgiveness from anyone.” she stepped closer, a glare on her features. “Is that why you are the way you are? Because you think you’re _deserving?”_ she turned his words back on him, a finger jabbing hard into his chest but he didn’t move. “You think you deserve what you dish out?”

“Something like that.” he told her. She’d hit the nail on the head and he had to run soon or this would take a turn for something he’d never come back from. He couldn’t let it get that far. Couldn’t, _wouldn’t._ “Probably worse.”

“I don’t believe that.” She stated, watching the way his eyes grew harsh in some semblance of seeming nonchalant, unbothered by the subject of conversation. “And you shouldn’t either.”

He scoffed, but she kept going.

“-And don’t say I’m losing my mind, either. You aren’t that bad.”

“But I am, Granger.” 

“Then why do I still feel safe around you?”

“Temporary insanity.” he answered. He could hope all he wanted for a chance with her, but the idea that he actually had one? It was laughable. “We both know you Gryffindors are suicidal-fear no evil and all that.” it’s what he told himself anyway.

“I’m not immune to fear.” she muttered, the finger jabbing into his chest lessening in pressure, her hand gathering the fabric up. “But I’m not afraid of you.” she tightened her grip on his clothes to punctuate the statement. 

He knew what was coming, and he didn’t want to fight it-no he wanted the complete opposite of what he was orchestrating. He wanted her close. _Closer._

But that was dangerous. 

But did it really matter?

Not right now. Not when she was this close. 

“Prove it.” he told her, one eyebrow cocked with the challenge. He would kick himself later for giving in, _for allowing it._

It seemed like that was all she’d been waiting for. 

Hermione walked him back until his legs hit the bed and she pushed him down, losing the grip she’d had on his shirt in favor of his shoulders, one hand tangling in his hair as she pulled him into another kiss. Their other embrace had been a forceful proclamation, almost desperate, but this- well this was gentle, languid; like whispered thoughts late at night. It was a means of conveying something unspeakable, something neither realized. 

He didn’t know when she straddled him, when she’d climbed into his lap, when his hands had found a home on her hips, pulling her closer; but he wasn’t going to dwell on it. It didn’t matter. Not really. All that mattered was her. 

When she pulled back for air-which was far too soon for his liking, he reached up, gathered her curls. It was almost second nature to pull, to help her bare her throat as he mouthed at the hollow of her neck. 

“Oh my god…” she sighed, falling into him. 

“I prefer Draco.” he murmured, a slow smirk on his face. He shouldn’t be doing this, he knew. But he’d pushed her, pulled her, and now they were fucked. _He was fucked._

She leaned back after a moment, meeting his eyes. “Seriously?” she laughed, shaking her head at him.

It was meant to be teasing, a way to rile her but it was the truth. He loved hearing his name on her lips; it was something he had to earn, and while he hadn’t earned any part of her, he’d allow himself the small things. He’d take what he could get while he still could, because he knew that things would end. The thought refused to leave his mind; a constant reminder. 

He could have thought of something witty, something better to say but not when she was this close, not when he couldn’t focus on anything else. “Yeah” he breathed, meeting her eyes. They were a glorious color, most would just say brown but he’d say gold; auriferous. They reminded him of November, of freshly turned leaves in the wind. Of warmth on a dreary day. 

One of them was going to say something, they were-really, but one, two, three knocks on the door halted any progress. 

What they were progressing toward, Draco didn’t want to think about; it was clear this wasn’t going to last, not when she was Hermione and he was Draco. Light and dark, and all the other examples of opposition. 

Hermione froze, eyes going to the door. 

Dimly, Draco realized his Dark Mark was reacting.

Being cockblocked by the Dark Lord had to have something to do with the seventh circle of hell. As much as he hated to admit, it was good they were interrupted, because he shouldn’t have let things get this far, shouldn’t have kissed her again. Kissed her at all. 

“It’s him.” Draco said quietly. It went without saying _who_ because Riddle was the only one that ever came knocking. Well, aside from Allison, who never bothered with things this late in the day. 

_“Fucker”_ she muttered, resting her head on his shoulder a moment. 

Another three knocks broke up the silence, more insistent this time. 

“Maybe if I don’t answer he’ll go away.” she whispered, her breath tickling his neck. It took everything in him not to shiver.

“We both know he won’t.” Draco told her. 

She made to stand, a glare across her features. “I don’t like it when you’re right.”

“Sorry, forgot there’s only room enough for one knowitall.” 

Hermione snorted, made her way to the door. “Are you going to hide?” she asked, noticing that he hadn’t moved just yet. 

He pulled on the animagi spell and shook his head at her. If he had a human face he’d be scowling or something close to it. As always, he pretended to be asleep, sprawling out on the bed. It was strategic; if Riddle did anything, Draco could-

Well, _lunge at him_ didn’t sound right, but it’s what he had planned. Just in case. 

He watched Hermione open the door, saw the way her shoulders tensed up, the way her fingers roll-tapped on the wood. “Did you need something?” she asked, annoyance clear in her tone. 

Riddle looked- _relieved?_ -when she opened the door. Draco didn’t like it. Didn’t like him, didn’t want him anywhere near her. But this was a game and Riddle held all the cards. Otherwise he would have hogtied the fucker and thrown him in the black lake or something. Future be damned, Draco itched to kill him, be done with it. But that wouldn’t be smart, so he didn’t. 

It seemed his impulse control only came into question when it involved Hermione. 

“I wanted to make sure you got back in one piece.” 

It was an interesting choice of words, the hidden meaning far more complex than ‘I was worried about you’. No, Riddle wanted to make sure Draco hadn’t done anything to Hermione. The idea burned him, made him rethink doing nothing. 

“I’m fine. Was that all?” Hermione’s tone was curt, to the point and a clear display of her dislike for the man. 

“May I come in?” 

Hermione stared at him, mouth agape for a few seconds too long because Riddle pushed his way past her, leaving the witch to stare at him, appalled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

Riddle stood in the center of the room, appraising everything in sight. There wasn’t much to see, Hermione was adamant on keeping everything in that godforsaken charmed bag. Probably a good thing. “I was curious as to what keeps you busy. You hardly leave your room unless you’re in class.”

“And that gives you a right to barge in?” she asked, tone poisonous. 

“I wanted to ask something as well.” said Riddle, picking up the pocket knife on the desk and examining it. “How did you know I was responsible for attempting to poison your…” He trailed off, sending a look of distaste towards Draco’s animagus form. “-animal?”

Hermione stiffened, and Draco listened, because this was news to him. She’d shown their hand, not completely, it seemed; but it was dangerous to reveal something that should stay secret. 

“I didn’t.” Hermione stated, eyes narrowed. “But thanks for confirming the theory.” it was a decent enough lie, but Draco didn’t know if it would stand up to scrutiny.

Riddle looked around again, his eyes catching on things that seemed relatively harmless. The discarded socks that missed laundry day, the books on the nightstand, the black lace up boots at the foot of the bed. 

_Draco’s_ black lace up boots. 

If he noticed, he certainly didn’t show it, but Riddle was never one to show anything on his face. It was a mask similar to Draco’s, but there was no cracking it. 

He noticed. 

“Your friend, that _Draco-”_ Riddle faced Hermione, his features hidden from Draco’s view. “It’s interesting you entertain his company. He seems dangerous.” The pocketknife had drawn Hermione’s eye. “It’s unwise to concern yourself with those types.”

The witch grit her teeth. “I don’t remember asking for your input.”

Riddle shrugged, the action unnatural simply because of who he was. “You don’t seem bothered by what he did.” 

“Should I be?” Hermione countered, “You _did_ curse him.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “Would you rather I curse you?” 

“I don’t think it’d make a difference.” she tapped her fingers on the door, and Draco wondered why the fuck she let this go on, why she didn’t really fight Riddle’s bursting into the room. “But you’re creating a pattern.” 

“I don’t follow.”

“Well you’ve done everything but come after me.” she said it simply. “You’ve gone after those close to me in some semblance of establishing yourself but I’ve got you figured out well enough without the dramatics.”

Draco wanted to throttle her for egging the man on. Things were only going to get worse now. Had she learned nothing? It was a game of back and forth, one action forced another. She wasn’t challenging him outright but Riddle would take it that way. 

“You think you’re next, then?” 

A forced smile that didn’t reach her eyes took up residence on her features. “I’m sure you’re just warming up for the main event.” she pulled the door farther open-it was never shut, but close enough so that no one would overhear the vague threats from the hallway. “Now get the fuck out of my room.”

“I could write you up for that language.” Riddle said, not moving to leave, the knife spinning in his fingers. It was odd how easily he’d achieved some level of power, no matter the insignificance. The fact he’d been elected head boy at all didn’t make much sense with the way he acted in school. Like he was untouchable, capable of getting away with murder-literally. 

“But you won’t.” she retorted. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” she tapped her fingers on the door, more insistent than before. 

Slowly, Riddle walked towards her, knife still in hand. He brandished it like a fine instrument, the point of the blade shining between them. Draco had to force himself to stay put as Riddle laid the blade flat against her cheek, eyes following the movement. Hermione stayed far too quiet. 

“You know, Hermione…” Drawled the man, his tone reverent-or something. “While you do have most of it correct, you do have one thing wrong.”

“D’you plan on enlightening me or are you going to try and play _Operation_ for another ten minutes?” She was panicking, Draco could tell. Her tone was drawn tight, the humor absent from her words. 

“I think you’ll figure it out on your own.” Riddle traced Hermione’s jaw with the blade, seeming to remember himself as he pulled away, flipping the knife and offering it to her, tilting his head when she accepted it with a steady hand. “Tell that friend of yours I wish to meet with him.” he said with a tone of finality, stepping over the threshold, brushing far too close to her. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

She slammed the door shut. 

“This is bad.” she mumbled, leaning against the wood. 

Draco let his grip on the animagus spell drop, and he sat up, watching her for any signs of an impending existential crisis. She tended to do that. But there seemed to be none. Yet. 

“And don’t even start with me-” she continued

“You shouldn’t have-”

“I know! I fucking know!” she exclaimed, pushing away from the door and throwing the knife towards the desk. She missed, but she didn’t seem to be aiming at anything in particular. The blade stuck in the drywall, the handle making a dull resounding noise. “Fucking-why the fuck? Why?” she rambled, pacing the room. “What the fuck.” she turned to look at him, the room falling into silence for a moment. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” 

“We’re not going to get our security deposit back.” he said, eyeing the blade buried in plaster. 

She glared. “Is that a concern now?” 

“Well you aren’t going to listen to my lecture about staying away from him, so you’ll have to settle for inane topics.”

“Douchebag.” she muttered, pacing once more. “This is a fucking disaster. We’re fucked. I’m fucked. You’re fucked. Riddle’s fucked.” she was rambling more to herself than to him and he knew she was spiraling, on the verge of some kind of breakdown.

“Granger.”

“...Fucking son of a bitch, I basically just told him to kill me-or that I expected him to- what if he takes that as some kind of challenge?”

“Granger!” 

She stopped, spun to look at Draco. “What?” she almost snarled it. She looked wild. “I’m having a moment.” and then she was pacing again. 

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Draco stood and grabbed her by the shoulders, one hand grasping her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “It’s done, there’s nothing you can do.” he told her, keeping his tone plain. 

“But he’s going to keep doing this!”

“We’ll be out of here before he can do anything drastic.” _Hopefully._

She scoffed at that. “Who’s to say we’ll ever get back? We haven’t found anything! And with the way things are going, he’ll-”

“Granger.” he warned, tilting his head. “Stop it.”

She stared at him in silence for a long while, relaxing only slightly. “How are you so calm about this?” she asked with eyes narrowed. 

“I find it’s useless to worry about things out of my control.” _except for my feelings-nasty things, those_ he thought. 

“Yeah well, not all of us can ignore our problems.” she snarked. “It’s a real possibility we might die here, you know.” 

Draco shrugged. “Sounds like a problem for tomorrow.” 

“You’re infuriating.” she muttered, her shoulders sinking in defeat. “We’re doomed.” 

He had no idea how to comfort her, no idea what to do at all. He knew what he _wanted_ to do, but it wasn’t a good idea. Draco didn’t have to think very long on his options, because Hermione fell into him, arms wrapped tight around his chest, drawing comfort from the one thing she truly had. Which just happened to be Draco.

“We’re doomed.” she repeated, voice muffled in his shirt. 

“You’ll be fine.” he told her, returning the hug-it was almost sickening how happy it made him. To have her close, to hold her. She was right when she said he was fucked, because he was. Everything had gone to shit and he felt selfish for not really caring. He had her close. That was all that mattered. 

“We should go to bed.” she mumbled, still holding on to him. 

Draco hummed his agreement. 

She pulled away, one hand on his wrist to pull him with her and he stopped dead in his tracks. _What the fuck is she doing?_

“What are you doing?” 

Hermione seemed to have regained her composure, her expression haughty as she turned to look at him. “Going to bed. We got interrupted.”

“Granger, we aren’t going to do the whole stereotypical _‘kiss and then fall into bed after some sudden realization of feelings’_ thing. Normal people don’t do that.”

“We aren’t normal people.”

She had a point, but he was almost to the point of no return. Maybe, kind of, sort of. It was hard to draw the line, hard to tell if he’d already jumped over it, but he couldn’t do this. Not if it wasn’t real.

But _fuck_ did he want to. 

Draco pulled what little self control he had left and shook his head at her. “We aren’t doing this.” he pulled out of her grasp, ignoring how much the loss of contact burned him.

“Why not?” 

“Because you’ve forgotten that I stabbed a man three hours ago. It’s not like me to agree with Riddle but he was right to warn you away.” he needed distance, _they_ needed distance. If he got too close-any more attached… he wouldn’t be able to ignore it any longer. It was hard enough as it was. 

“So?” 

“So you’re going to wake up tomorrow and overanalyze everything that’s happened today and I don't want to be one of your regrets.” 

Hermione ground her jaw, but stepped forward into his space. “Fine.” she sounded petulant. “But you’re sleeping in the bed.”

“That’s not-”

“I don’t care.” she interrupted. _“I don’t care.”_ she repeated. “Now get in the fucking bed before I have a conniption over how pitiful I sound.” she stared up at him, her expression twisted. “Please… I just...” she spoke far too quietly, her hands twitching at her sides, itching for something to do. “I don’t want to have nightmares tonight.”

He couldn’t say no. He should, but he couldn’t. Her begging him didn’t sit well with him. The word ‘please’ sounded wrong from her mouth when aimed towards him, like _he_ owed _her_ for something rather than the other way around. 

“Fine.” 

“That’s it?” she asked, slightly disbelieving. Her tone had done a complete 180 in lieu of surprise. “No _this is a bad idea_ speech?” she tried mimicking his voice but failed. 

“You’re going to bully me into it anyway so we’ll cut the speeches short.” he muttered. He’d had enough of them, having given himself multiple _speeches_ on why he shouldn’t be doing exactly what he was doing. Which happened to be sleeping in the same bed as Hermione Granger. Really , he wasn’t that opposed to the idea. He’d missed her proximity. They’d done everything backwards, sharing a bed, then sleeping separately, then kissing. 

“I would not.” she replied haughtily. 

“Don’t lie to yourself.” he muttered, allowing himself to be pulled into the bed. She seemed to enjoy manhandling him for some reason but he didn’t mind. “You never take no for an answer.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at him as she shut off the lights and crawled into bed next to him, her head on his chest and arm over his torso like he was actually going to bolt. “How is it you know me this well after a month but Harry and Ron took upwards of seven years to get some idea of how to deal with me?” 

“Because they’re idiots.” 

“You were doing so well.” she scolded, shaking her head. If ‘doing well’ meant not insulting her friends, he’d take it. 

“We have to be realistic.” 

She scoffed, curling into him. “Whatever.” she mumbled, the silence stretching out before she tilted her head to look at him, a sincere expression on her face. “Night Malfoy.”

“Goodnight Granger.” Draco pulled the duvet over them both. It was domestic as hell and he hated himself for loving it. He pushed away the thoughts of ‘this is a bad idea’ and ‘go lock yourself in the bathtub’ in favor of just… existing in the moment. 

It didn’t work very well. 

Draco’s mind ran away from him as he listened to Hermione’s breathing slow. He circled back to the conversation with Riddle, the way he played with her, the way she _allowed_ it. Hermione wasn’t meek in the face of danger, but she was certainly _something_ during Riddle’s visit, his warning. 

A single thought echoed across his mind, impossible to escape from. 

_She hadn’t drawn her wand._

* * *

**_Monday, September 25th, 1944_ **

It was nice, waking up with someone, her head on his chest, the slow and steady drum of his heart the only noise dulling the silence. For a moment, she forgot where she was, when she was, and it was freeing; the familiarity. Like it’d happened plenty of times before. 

They’d shared a bed before, she’d fallen asleep on him one other time, but this was the first she’d woken up with him still there, still present. Most times, she woke to stolen blankets and a scowling face, her wand alarm trilling the both of them awake. 

_‘Turn it off before I snap something’s neck’_ he’d say, yanking the blankets over his head and turning away. Draco Malfoy was a terror in the mornings, especially if Hermione kept him up late, talking to him and bothering him with inane questions. He never told her to stop, told her he needed to sleep, and she’d always keep the conversation going, finding him easy to talk to. At night, she forgot how much he needed his rest. Then the mornings smacked her in the face, dragging laughter from her chest as he muttered weak threats into the pillows. 

There was none of that this morning. 

He always woke before her, the slightest sound pulling the sleep from his mind and bringing him to the waking world aware- and most times, cross. Usually with Hermione, because she was an early riser but a heavy sleeper. 

Hermione had never really seen him asleep before, what with how light a sleeper he was, and the fact that _he_ was usually one to wake _her._ Draco looked peaceful in his sleep, the tension missing from his features and the mask he always wore was gone, retired for the time being. His arm was still curved around her, a source of warmth in the dungeons. Even in the tail end of September, the room was like a walk-in freezer. She didn’t mind all that much, as Gryffindor tower was like an oven in the summer months. It seemed to be one extreme or the other. 

“You’re staring.” said Draco, his voice rough with sleep.

“No I’m not.” she muttered, still not averting her gaze. He hadn’t really moved, opened his eyes, shown any signs of being awake, but he was. _Apparently._

Draco cracked open one eye, shook his head at her staring, and went back to his false slumber, his hair sticking up in odd directions. She swallowed the laughter in her throat-it wasn’t really _funny,_ per say, but it was odd, seeing him so unpolished. 

“You’re still staring.”

“How do you know?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “Your eyes are closed.”

“I just know.” 

A scoff escaped her. “How egocentric.” she laid her head back on his chest, not caring enough to wonder why this was so normal, so familiar. It didn’t matter, it wouldn’t make sense without all the pieces. “Did I wake you?” 

“No.” he answered simply, not volunteering any other information. 

“What time is it?” she asked, knowing her wand’s alarm hadn’t gone off yet. Otherwise he’d be annoyed, or something. He seemed far too peaceful to be woken up by a violent trilling noise. 

“Four” 

_“What?”_ she raised her head to watch his face for a lie-knowing she wouldn’t find one if there was. It was dark in the room, the only light coming from the dimmed sconce next to the door. But then it was _always_ dark in the room, seeing as the dungeon’s only windows opened up to the black lake, which was far too opaque for a body of water. 

“Four in the morning.” 

“Why are you awake?” 

He shrugged, a nonanswer. 

“If I kept you up-”

“You didn’t.” he muttered, “Go back to sleep, Granger.”

She knew him well enough to not try to push him, and she was still two hours away from starting her day, so she wasn’t going to waste the chance to get more sleep. 

Neither knew, but something had shifted between them, feelings and emotions were remembered. The reasoning, well that was unknown, but it was like muscle memory, a sure thing that just made sense, even though it really didn’t, given their history, given the war and everything that came before. 

Hermione knew she didn’t remember what was usual anymore, the thought refused to leave, but she didn’t care, not really. Draco felt familiar, and that was all she needed. 

It was a decent morning, all things considered. She went to breakfast with Allison and Elizabeth, dodged their questions about her ‘mysterious wizard’ and kept to herself, like she always did. 

At least she tried to. 

It was Slughorn’s class, towards the end when he asked her to stay late, said he wished to discuss something. Hermione wasn’t over his thinking she’d cheated on a _pop quiz_ of all things, but she tried to keep the animosity at bay long enough to be civil. She’d never liked the man, not after the shit with Harry and that godforsaken potions textbook and everything else he did. 

Like enable her asking Cormac _fucking_ McLaggen to a dinner party in a fit of scheming jealousy over Ron’s ‘Lavender ordeal’. It was his dinner party after all. 

It felt like ages ago, her tryst with Ron. if it was even a tryst. More of a fling, barely that- an instance of one sided pining. Kind of. Ron wanted something she couldn’t give him, and while the affections weren’t returned outside of anything other than a close friendship, she’d been jealous. It was sick and twisted of her, but the moment Ron moved on, she resented him for it. She liked the chase, _being chased,_ but Ron wasn’t the right person. 

Still, it was indirectly Slughorn’s fault she’d gotten ‘involved’ with McLaggen and yeah, maybe there was still some unfounded animosity from that. _Maybe._ It was partially the whole cheating thing, which she considered an insult. 

“Miss Granger, come in, please have a seat.”

She sat, not speaking yet, because if she did, it was going to be something petty. Something that sounded like _‘did you call me in here to ask if I’ve cheated another exam?’_ She watched the professor shuffle the parchment on his desk, straighten the row of quills. She wasn’t sure if he was stalling or just inconsiderate of her time. Not that she had anything to do, not really, aside from lock herself in her room and stew in her emotions about Draco. And other things.

But mostly Draco. Who was sitting silently at the back of the office, unassuming as ever to those unaware of his true identity. He was always a silent shadow, talkative only towards her even in human form. She didn’t know if it was the cause of some kind of general mistrust towards others or the fact that he’d learned long ago that she’d keep talking to him if he responded or not. 

“I wanted to ask if you’d be interested in joining my afterschool program, it’s-”

“Slug Club, yes I’ve heard of it.” Hermione interrupted, far too close to the edge of insanity to be patient. 

The man smiled, steepled his fingers as he leaned back in his chair. “Oh good!” his smile was far too wide on his face. “I only accept the best and brightest, I was wondering if you would like to be inducted into the organization.” 

Hermione resisted the urge to start laughing. It was hardly an organization. Slughorn was a collector; anyone with connections or a decent set of brain cells was asked to join. He was a gossip, mostly. 

“...We have monthly dinners and occasionally you’ll be given an assignment where you’d learn how to brew some of the more complex potions...” he was hardly selling things, but Hermione wouldn’t say no to learning something new. It wasn’t like she had a heavy caseload as it was-the schoolwork was easy enough with Draco to take on half the workload and their research had plateaued. A change would help reset her mind. And if it gave her access to restricted ingredients, that wouldn’t hurt. 

Dimly, she realized she hadn’t really been listening, but Slughorn was looking at her, clearly expecting an answer. 

“I’d love to.” she answered, slowly gathering what he expected of her. He thought she’d excel in the ministry, or wherever she ended up after school. 

“Perfect!” it was still unnerving how _un-slytherin_ he was. “Usually I ask at the beginning of the year, but I had to be sure of your talents. We’ll have our first meeting this Thursday at six. I’ll get you the paperwork tomorrow in class.”

She bid him goodbye and made her way to her room. It’d been a long and boring day, and a lecture from Draco about staying under the radar was sure to follow. They didn’t need the extra work, but access to Slughorn’s secret stash could come in handy. Surely he’d see that. 

**10:43 P.M.**

It was late, the common room empty. 

Draco had had an idea, one that involved one of the books from Slytherin house’s private library. _’Magical maladies involving Meam Commemortaionem’._ He’d mentioned a drinking game between him and Theo where they’d try and read passages of medical textbooks in piglatin. 

He got mad when she called him a bigger nerd than herself. 

But the book was about remembering, and it was worth a shot. It wasn’t like they had any leads on time travel. 

The Slytherin common room had an extensive library, filled with everything from arithmancy to memoirs. Nothing was organized and she missed Madam Pince’s filing system with every part of her being. It wasn’t even in alphabetical order. She’d have to accio it if she didn’t want to search for three hours. Her wand was in her hand, barely out of her pocket when he made himself known. 

She didn’t hear anyone come up behind her. She should have. _Should have._ But she didn’t. 

It was cold, the blade of the knife, stinging her flesh, forcing her to keep still. A hand forced her forward, the shelves jutting into her ribs, her knees. Her face. 

The room was still silent, and Hermione wondered if they’d used a muffilatio on their person, whoever it was. Her mind went to the facts, keeping her from losing her shit and panicking. 

It was one of the men, because Allison and Elizabeth wouldn’t pull anything like this. They dealt with things psychologically, like true teenage girls. The men, well they were hot headed and Slytherin or not, they could all be too quick on the trigger when pushed. 

Riddle wouldn’t pull something like this. He did things anonymously, with more grace. This was too sloppy for him. If he were to pull something like confronting her, he wouldn’t leave any doubt in her mind as to who was holding the knife. 

The Imperius on Rosier was still holding, and he was barred from harming her in any way. Cygnus, well he wasn’t prone to dirty his hands, he’d use magic. Rodolphus would be talking her ear off with his nonsensical iterations. So- none of them. 

It left one name. 

“Abraxas.” she said, less accusation and more cold greeting. 

The knife on her neck pressed harder, blood warming her neck as a few drops escaped. “Hermione.” he returned, tone low and dangerous. “Forgive me, my hand may have slipped a bit. I’m sure you know why.”

“I’m sure we’ll work something out.” she muttered, trying to keep a clear head. “Are we going to talk face to face or do I have to have this conversation with _Moby Dick?”_ it was the only title she could read at the moment. 

“Oh, I think I like you better this way…” he whispered, the hand pressing on her back creeping lower and lower. “It’s easier if I don’t have to see your pretty face while I do this.” 

“Which is what, exactly?” she expected her voice to waver, but it came out strong and steady, almost exasperated. She had yet to lose her shit. 

The knife pressed harder, more blood trickling down her neck. “Well, your little boyfriend decided retaliation transferred across relationships, so I’ve decided to come after _you_ in place of him.” a huff of a laugh sounded in her ear. “It’s only fair.”

Hermione stiffened as his hand moved to the waistband of her uniform, slowly untucking her shirt. 

“It’s a shame, really. I will admit, you caught my eye.” she heard him inhale and fucking hell _was he smelling her?_ “I do wish things could have been different, but after that stunt, I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive you.”

Occlusion made her mind numb. It was better that way, safer. A breakdown would do her no good should an opportunity arise where she wasn’t in danger of getting her throat slit. All she needed was a second, maybe two, to raise her wand, hex the shit out of him, but that time wasn’t now. Not yet. 

Her lack of responses had gotten to him, and he grabbed her shoulder, spun her around so that her back was digging into the bookshelves. 

“Uh-uh-uh” Abraxas tutted, noticing her wand. His bandaged hand pulled it from her grasp, tossed it somewhere over his shoulder, out of reach. “Can’t have you ruining the fun now.”

“You’re sick.” she told him.

He only shrugged, the smile on his face unnerving in its sincerity. “Not as sick as that wizard of yours, I suspect.”

“He’ll kill you.” she didn’t really think about the words but she knew them to be true. But that wouldn’t bode well, seeing as if Abraxas died then Draco would never be born. So they couldn’t kill him. They couldn’t kill anyone. But no one had to know they were empty threats. 

Abraxas leered, the knife still at her neck. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, I suppose.” the knife dug deeper, pinching and splitting skin as his other hand wandered. “I’m fairly talented with obliviation, if I do say so myself.”

She didn’t reply, focusing on drawing up thick concrete walls of occlusion in place of letting his words sink in. 

“You’ll never remember, but knowing I got my own revenge is good enough for me.” Abraxas continued, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her uniform. “That’s all a man needs sometimes.”

Hermione flinched away from his touch when his hand neared her face, squeezing her eyes shut. 

But the touch never came, and the pressure at her neck lessened. Disappeared completely, actually. 

She opened her eyes to see Abraxas falling to the floor with a dull thud, stunned, the knife bouncing free from his grasp. Knowing better than to drop her guard, Hermione knelt down, retrieved the blade. Her wand was somewhere else, somewhere out of reach. The wandless occlusion had taken more effort than she would ever admit, an _accio_ out of the question for the time being. 

“Stay the fuck over there!” she almost growled the words, knife held out in front of her. Of all the people to ‘save’ her, she never expected _him._

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice careful, drawn tight. 

Hermione resisted the urge to chuck the knife across the room. “Here to play saviour to the damsel in distress?” her voice was poison. 

Riddle held his hands out, his wand finding home in his robes. “Hermione, I’m not going to hurt you.” he was acting as if _she_ were the animal in the room.

She knew better than to trust him. “Right, I’m sure your goon just disobeyed orders and tried to enact revenge of his own volition. Maybe he did, who knows.” the handle of the knife was heavy in her hand. “Either way, this happened because of you.” 

“I apologize, I didn’t think-”

“Didn’t think what? That your underlings would start taking notes? See how you operate?” she interrupted, too angry to be wary. Riddle had cursed Draco. Draco had stabbed Abraxas. Abraxas tried retaliating by doing whatever it was that just happened. It should have been between them, because she’d hexed him, thus he should have hexed her. That was how normal people went about things. 

“Hermione, I am sorry. He was never-”

“You should learn how to control your guard dogs, Riddle. Might do you some good.” she didn’t need to hear an apology. It wasn’t a real one, not from him. He was incapable of feeling remorse or anything else, she knew. 

Slowly, he crossed the room, the fireplace lighting his features in odd patterns, shadows dancing across the hollow of his jaw, his eyes dark. “Are you hurt?” he asked again, this time an easier answer. An obvious one as well; she could feel the blood drying on her skin, see it on her clothes. There wasn’t much, not enough to be anything other than annoying, far from life threatening. 

“I’m fine, not that it matters to you.” she snarked out, sidestepping Abraxas’ unconscious form and Riddle’s slow advance, bending to retrieve her wand. “I’ve reached my quota for psychological torture for the day, so if you’d kindly fuck off-” she let herself trail off, hoping he’d draw his own conclusion about her dislike. 

“He shouldn’t have done that.” his voice was empty, blank of anything as he eyed the blood staining her neck. 

“Did you finally figure out how to grow a conscience?” she asked, pocketing the knife, her wand the only weapon she was comfortable enough to use. “Or are you mad because he beat you to it?” 

Riddle stepped closer, an odd expression on his face. She found she couldn’t move-not by any magically motivated means, but out of confusion. Every cell of her being told her to run, to hex him, to scream or _something,_ but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot, stuck watching his hand near her neck, stuck feeling the way his fingers brushed her skin. 

“He shouldn’t have done that.” he said again, his tone dark, foreboding this time. A chill threatened to ripple across her skin. Out of fear or something else, she didn’t really know. 

“No shit.” she managed to say, frozen when he pulled his hand away, rooted to the spot at the sight of her own blood smeared across his skin.

_Tar black._

Sometime during her daze, he’d drawn his wand. 

Part of her wondered if she’d been petrified, the way her body refused to listen, to move, to do anything other than watch. Maybe he was going to finish the job Abraxas started, maybe he was going to make it worse, maybe-

She felt the skin at her neck stitch back together; an open wound, closed.

_Flayed skin._

Riddle didn’t say a word, his expression harsher than she’d ever seen and briefly, she wondered again if he was going to kill her there and then, hide her body in a first year’s closet or something equally sinister. Like lull her into some false sense of security by fixing her and then tearing her apart with his own hands instead of someone else’s. 

The blood on her shirt was banished with a silent _scourgify_ and those thoughts, ideations of murder swirled beneath the surface yet again. She knew better than to take it for face value, his apparent kindness. Because he was not kind. This was not kind, this was a game of chess, a very complicated game of chess. 

He lowered his wand but didn’t speak, didn’t step back, and she realized that up close, yeah, maybe she understood Parvati’s drunk insistence that a young Tom Riddle wasn’t bad looking.

The thought burned her more than the word on her arm and she stepped back, occlusion the only thing keeping her from screaming her lungs ragged. 

A silent _accio_ summoned the book she’d come for, and she disappeared down the hall, not running, but not walking either. She didn't care enough to say anything to him, to see his reaction to her retreat. 

Her room had never been a more relieving sight, the wards shimmering at her arrival, greeting her with a curtain of magic evoking some sense of safety. The lock didn’t hurt either, though it was more out of habit than anything. There was no need, as long as the wards were intact. 

The room was silent for a few moments, Draco's eyes cut through her, separating flesh from bone.

“Why do you look like that?” 

Hermione’s brain stalled, all thoughts racing out her ears and leaving her head empty. “Uh.”

Draco only raised an eyebrow, appraising her with far too much scrutiny. In the span of maybe half a second, he was standing, looming close. Maybe not _half a second,_ but time seemed to be struggling to catch up. 

“Granger.” it was a push toward something, a question without a tone, and she didn’t know what to say. How to say it. _If_ she should say it. 

But her mouth seemed to be fine with being a traitor.

“Abraxas.” a simple answer to curb his anger. If she told the entire story, he'd do something he couldn't take back. 

Draco’s eyes narrowed, searched her for nonexistent wounds, blood that was no longer there. She knew the exact moment he figured it out, his eyes catching on her shirt; unbuttoned. Her uniform rumpled and not tucked in. 

“What did he do?” 

It almost scared her, how much his voice had changed, at the drop in timbre, the ice coating his words. Her mind threatened to draw parallels between Riddle and Draco, but really, there weren’t many. 

Riddle was cold, empty, void of everything. He communicated in harsh tones and sharp edges. Draco was expressive in details, she could always tell by his eyes when he was angry, upset, or god forbid- _happy._ The tone of Draco’s voice was a jagged edge, able to instill fear and comfort as easily as flipping a switch. 

The look on his face-well it was rage, a scathing version barely held back from the brink of his restraint. She wasn’t afraid of him, Hermione was sure of that now, but she was afraid for whomever was on the receiving end of whatever he seemed to be plotting.

 _“Granger.”_ he drew her name out, a warning that if she didn’t tell him, he’d go out to the common room himself. Or the dorm in which Abraxas slept. Whichever one. 

“I’m fine.”

It was like he was searching for proof of the lie, the way he stared at her. “No you’re not.”

He was still far too angry. 

She’d always considered him to be calm, calculated. She’d never seen him like this before. 

“I lived.” she said weakly, suddenly aware of how long she’d been on her feet, of the heavy tome of a book that was in her hands. “No big deal.”

“I’ll kill him.”

Hermione knew he wasn’t lying. “I might have told him that.”

“You’ve ruined my element of surprise.” he deadpanned

“You can’t kill your grandfather.” it wasn’t funny this time.

“I can do far worse.” His eyes caught hers and she froze for a completely different reason. 

It was silent in the room, him standing a foot away, her backed up against the door, not out of a retreat, but as a means to steady herself in the exhaustion she felt. She offered the book, moving to kick off her shoes when he accepted it but didn’t look inside. Didn’t look away. 

“What happened?” it sounded strained, like he was holding back from opening the door and cursing anyone that came close enough.

She shrugged off her robes next, threw them over the desk chair as she stepped farther into the room. A dull noise drew her attention and she froze at the sight of the knife still edged with her blood laying on the floor; almost shining in the light. It’d fallen out of her pocket, forgotten in her hasty escape. Dimly, she realized it was familiar. 

It was slow, the way he walked over and picked up the dagger. Set it atop the desk like it’d burned him. Even slower, he turned to face her, an inexplicable expression on his face.

“Is that yours or his?” It went without saying he was talking about the blood, dried and smeared. 

“Mine.” she said it quietly, because if she said it any louder she feared it would set him off completely. 

“I’ll kill him.”

“You’ve said that.”

“Because I’m going to.”

Hermione took a deep breath, closed her eyes. It was no use arguing his plan to kill his own kin, she knew he was smart enough not to erase his existence, but the way he shifted from _Draco_ to someone else was jarring. Silently, she collected her pajamas and went to get ready for bed, the ensuite door closing softly behind her.

The girl in the mirror looked the same. She didn’t look like she’d been threatened by a friend’s relative and then healed by the Dark Lord. there was no evidence, aside from the look in her eyes. The look that said something had gone wrong, very wrong. 

It hurt to look, so she dressed quickly, washed her face without looking at her reflection. 

When she emerged, Draco hadn’t moved from his standing next to the desk, but his eyes were almost glued to the dagger, his fists clenched at his sides. 

“What is it?” she asked, knowing he probably wouldn’t answer. He was loath to ever admit he was upset about something, but his private brooding always gave him away. He didn’t really react to her questioning, but he did stash the dagger in a desk drawer, out of sight. 

But not out of mind; she could see that he knew something, knew he wasn’t going to stop thinking about it. 

Instead of pushing-because she knew better-she watched him. The way his eyes stayed on the drawer, the way he flexed his hands, how the sharp line of his shoulders grew taught. “Draco?”

It was a few seconds before he blinked, looked up, met her eyes. A silent question. 

“I’m fine, really.”

He didn’t speak, but his eyes hadn’t gone back to the drawer. 

It didn’t take much to cross the room, to hug him, to attempt to draw enough comfort to make up for the past hour. His arms were safe, a sure thing when wrapped around her. He held her close, one hand smoothing her hair as the other barred her from leaving, as if she would be the one to bolt this time. 

“I’m fine.” Hermione said it again, not sure who she was trying to convince. 

She decided not to tell him what Riddle had done.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, if any are noticed, please let me know.  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> [Chapter word count: 9,700]
> 
> oh no, what did I do  
> heE hee


	11. Malevolence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Does he seem bored to you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athame or athamé (/əˈθɒm/, /ˈæθəmeɪ/ or /ˈæθɪm/) is a ceremonial blade, generally with a black handle.  
> (what the fuck is google on with that pronunciation)
> 
> [Chapter word count: 11,000]

* * *

_9/28/44_

_Diary,_

_Our pairing in Slughorn’s club has shown me something new. She knows things. About me. About Herbert. She even asked his name. It’s something many would have been unnerved by but she was not._

_I’ve been watching her, noticing things. My fascination before was only a morbid curiosity, but now I have a true reason. I know what it is that draws us together. She is like grey magic, neither light nor dark and that confused me before. But now I know what it is. I know what’s corrupting her. I can help her. I can save her from him. She does not know what she needs._

_I do._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/29/44_

_Diary,_

_I want her fear, I am the only one deserving. I cannot stop thinking about it. It’s intoxicating, that look in her eyes, so easily hidden by false bravado. I saw it that night with Abraxas, only for a moment, but it was enough. I saw it again this morning at breakfast._

_She should not fear Abraxas. He does not deserve her terror._

_I do._

_T.R._

* * *

_9/30/44_

_Diary,_

_The others are growing concerned with my fixation on Hermione. But they do not understand. How could they? I surround myself with fools for a reason. They are easily controlled, easily convinced to follow blindly. They are falling out of line. I cannot discipline them. Not while Dumbledore is watching my every move. It’s only a matter of time._

_They will need punishment because they do not understand. They never will. There is a threat in our midst and she is clueless. That wizard, he does not understand her. Not like I do._

_He does not deserve her._

_I do._

_T.R._

* * *

_10/1/44_

_Diary,_

_I saw them together. It was sickening. She does not see him for what he is. But I do. He is holding her back from her true potential. I saw it today. He is trying to control her, to keep her, to tame her. She is not to be tamed. She is to bloom._ ~~ _The way he to_ ** _u_** _c_ ** _hed her-_**~~ _I shan’t think about it else I’ll set this page aflame._

_I will have her._

_I will keep her._

_Soon, she will see._

_That wizard._ _He is n_ ** _ot_** _hi_ ** _n_** _g._ _He is nothing compared to me and I will show her. I will show her what she needs. She does not know what she needs._

_I do._

_T.R._

* * *

**_Thursday, September 28th, 1944_ **

They didn’t talk about it. 

About any of it.

Hermione thought it best. They didn’t talk about her insistence that he sleep in the bed again. It was only to ward off the cold of the dungeons and the sting of nightmares, definitely not anything else. That would be insane. They didn’t talk about the kiss. Well, _kisses._ There had been two, maybe two and a half if she counted the rejected one from her manic episode after the _incident._ They didn’t talk about it. 

She found she couldn’t talk about it if she tried. Their conversations went back to being stilted, careful not to upset the other, and she wondered who was trying harder to hide things, her or Draco. Though surely, they had completely different secrets. 

His feelings for her were a point of contention, something he ignored. It was for the best. He occluded them away, knowing better than to let hope in. It’d only smolder and burn inside of him, suffocate in the darkness until snuffed out.

-Hermione, well she was worse off in the secrets department. It hurt to keep something so monumental from him, but she knew he’d be angry, or warn her away, or revert farther back to the cold statue she’d seen glimpses of every now and again. It didn’t seem like much, a mere sentence. _‘Riddle healed me.’_ innocent enough, but his actions had implications, a meaning she wasn’t sure of yet. 

It hinted that he was invested in her well being. A weakness. 

It was something to be manipulated. 

She knew Draco wouldn’t agree; he’d never let her near Riddle if she told him she planned on exploiting the apparent soft spot for her. But Draco didn’t have to know. 

Draco would lose his mind at the idea. But Hermione was doing it for him- _because of him._ Riddle’s insistence she tell _‘her wizard’_ that he wanted a meeting had told her two things: 

One: Riddle was intrigued by _‘her wizard’._

Two: she was protective of _‘her wizard’._

It wasn’t a new revelation, not really. It’d taken a bit to realize what exactly the feeling was, but she’d figured it out. He’d become one of her people, someone she relied on and trusted. That churning pit of emotions in her stomach when Riddle said anything about Draco was a familiar one, the same thing she felt towards Ron and Harry. It was worry, plain and simple. An innate need to protect her own. Somewhere along the line, she’d accepted Draco into her circle. But he was not her wizard. She knew that. 

It should have bothered her, how easily she’d grown to care about him even after knowing he’d been on the wrong side of the war, tortured a man, taunted another. It should have but it didn’t. Because she’d seen him, all of him, and Draco Malfoy was a good man, twisted as he may be at times. It sounded insane to her, ignoring that little tiny glaring detail that he had hurt people. Be it some kind of side effect of their proximity or something else, she didn’t care. Not anymore. 

She wasn’t going to delude herself into thinking Draco was helpless, in need of protection or anything else, but she wasn’t going to let Riddle near him, lest the Dark Lord try to corrupt him, push him further into darkness. Draco didn’t deserve that. He shouldn’t have to make any more impossible choices. She’d do it for him. It wasn’t a matter of saving him, but sparing him the option. 

-Because she knew he’d do the same. And he’d already been through hell. Hermione assumed Draco didn’t know about the way he thrashed in his sleep, the way he cried out for someone to stop, or the way he apologized over and over and over to an unnamed soul. His nightmares were as bad as hers, maybe worse. She was protecting him, putting herself in Riddle’s sights. 

Like Draco had done in Hogsmeade, for her. But she didn’t know what would happen if Riddle decided he was too volatile, too out of control. The Dark Lord was invested in her; he hadn’t let Abraxas do whatever it was he had planned on doing, and that meant something. It meant she had a value to him, she was something he wanted. 

She could use that to her advantage; keep Riddle at arm’s length. -Away from Draco until they could figure out how the fuck to get home, because the both of them were going stir crazy with no new theories about their sudden appearance in the ‘40’s. The book she’d been retrieving before Abraxas _interrupted_ was useless, nothing of interest between the pages of _’Magical maladies involving Meam Commemorationem’._ It was starting to look hopeless. 

She wondered if they’d ever get back. 

What they would go back to was an issue in itself. They were missing time, neither knew how much. Was it weeks? Months? _Years?_

Without an exact date, there was no way to be sure they’d get back to where they’d been. Paradoxical theory hurt to think about but she knew if they went back too early and ended up with another version of themselves in the world, things would inevitably go awry. 

Maybe that’s what landed them in 1944. A paradox due to them being in this exact situation before; cursed to live a permanent loop of Riddle’s attention and repetitive schoolwork. But their memory loss didn’t make sense. The Whomping Willow’s early existence didn’t make sense. Peeves’ badgering her in the hall didn’t make sense.

The lack of literature on the situation was the biggest issue to her. Surely there was _something?_ Hermione doubted she was the first to discover a hellscape such as this; impossible magical firsts happened to be _Harry’s_ thing. 

Going back was an issue all its own. As odd as it was to admit, she liked Draco- his presence, his humor, his touch. 

What if this wasn’t real? What if he wasn’t real? What if _she_ wasn’t? 

A figment of imagination wouldn’t be capable of complex thought processes and extreme inner turmoil so she nixed the idea. Hermione was real. But was Draco? 

They’d talked about this before, but if she was right about his not being real, he’d only say what was needed to ensure she thought he was truly there, a real person. She had to think of all the possibilities. The doubt was overshadowed by a feeling of knowing. Hermione just _knew_ he was real, he was there. He had no real reason to be so connected to her, the only reminder of where she came from, so she had to assume he was truly there, living through the same things. He wasn’t a hallucination, an addition to a hellscape. He wasn’t. 

If they ever got back, she wondered what would happen between them. Sure, there were the recovered memories, but they hadn’t told them much aside from the fact that Draco was handy with a gun and they were apprehending Death Eaters in other countries. The memories hadn’t shown much of their dynamic, but it was almost professional, outside of their arguing. 

She didn’t want to go back, not if she had to let go of her odd _thing_ with Draco. It was unlike her, becoming so enamored by a wizard that had barely given her any real romantic attention-okay maybe that was a lie. She’d been infatuated with Ron before they’d even established themselves to be friends. But _this_ wasn’t _that._

It was a partnership, an arrangement that forced them together, and the memories proved they’d done it before- with some level of professionalism. It told her that things weren’t like this in the future, where they had come from. They seemed to be close, yes, but nothing like they were now. 

She wanted to talk to him; test a theory, but she couldn’t go right out and ask him such a thing. It might scare him away-springing a highly emotional subject on him with no warning. He’d flip out, maybe lock himself away again. Or call her insane. It was probably all of those- it wasn’t what she wanted to happen. 

The realization she _knew_ what she wanted to happen was the worst of it all. 

They were fine here, in 1944 where no one knew them. Forced together, to spend time with one another, to talk about anything and everything. To shed the protective layers they’d weaved in school to remain indifferent or hateful toward one another. Things were different. 

If you asked Hermione about Draco Malfoy three years ago, she would tell you that he was an egotistical douchebag with a family that favored genocidal tendencies. She’d say that he was one of the worst people she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting, that he loved to chip away at everything about her; from her hair to her friends. She’d say he had no real sense of humor- unless it included an insult, that he was impossibly stubborn and dangerous in his beliefs. 

He was still many of those things.

But if you asked her now, well. It was complicated. Because he was still an asshole. He was still an egotistical douchebag. He enjoyed self-deprecating jokes about himself instead of her, though he still made digs at Harry and Ron and the state of her hair. She supposed some things would never change. That was fine, it was something familiar. She had a feeling it was more to keep up appearances than a real hatred for the way her hair resembled Medusa’s. _‘It’s sentient. I’ve half a mind it’ll grow eyes and turn me to stone one day’._

His tone usually lacked the true ire it once had, their arguments shifting into something that almost resembled bickering, insults tossed to and fro in a game they both enjoyed. It was only when she accidentally put herself in danger that he would grow cold, serious, angry behind a false mask. He’d hold back any true insults-because she knew he was capable, but he wouldn’t let her skate through with no repercussions, either. 

The changes in him were gradual. He wasn’t the same boy who would use his father’s name as a threat. He wasn’t outspoken, he didn’t go out of his way to make her life a living hell. He didn’t command attention-on purpose, at least. 

He’d grown into a new person, and she found she liked who he was now. 

Even if he was still an egotistical douchebag behind closed doors. 

She’d unpack the propensity for torture later. 

It was impossible to tell if she’d be able to have him in her life upon returning to wherever it was they’d come from. She didn’t even know what year she’d left behind-it wasn’t 1998, she knew that from the memories. Sure, maybe they worked together, maybe they were semi-friendly, but she doubted there’d be anything else waiting for them. If she knew one thing, it was that she didn’t want to let go of the odd _thing_ they’d started between them. Even if it was just two mindblowing makeout sessions and a few nights of sleeping in his arms. 

It had the potential to be something more. 

Or maybe it already was.

She didn’t want to believe she could forget a whole relationship with him, but she’d erased her entire existence from her parent’s memory. It was possible. 

But her friends would never accept it if it happened to exist-she knew Ron well enough that he’d have a conniption over anything Malfoy related and Harry was still stuck on his childhood vendetta. Plus the shit with the war- _god that was inconvenient._ It’d be a repeat of Victor Krum but with more tears and probably hexes. They hadn’t liked who she’d taken to the yule ball and they certainly wouldn’t like the fact that Draco Malfoy was her newest conquest. 

She didn’t want to call him a conquest, but that’s what she was calling it in place of something more serious.

But she didn’t know what could be more serious than what she had planned in order to keep Draco and Riddle from either killing each other or working together as a facade. 

Choosing not to tell Draco about her plan would be for the best. 

She knew it was wrong, but she had to think of the greater good. Which happened to include Draco’s well being and their surviving a war torn 1944. It was kind of annoying the way things turned out. If they left the school grounds, they’d be stuck between choosing a wizarding war or World War Two. 

Neither looked like a good option. 

It was either run and die quickly or stay and die slowly. 

Decisions, decisions. 

**05:41 PM**

“I’m going.”

“Then-”

 _“Alone.”_ she interrupted, arms crossed as she glared at him. “You always sneeze.”

His eyes narrowed, a scathing retort ready, but Hermione cut him off before he could start.

“You do, don’t even try to deny it.”

“It’s not like I can help it.”

A roll of her eyes. She needed to be nonchalant, needed him to think there wasn’t anything going on. “You can _help it_ by staying here.” she needed him to. 

“I don’t like it.” he told her, voice plain, almost uncaring. But she knew better. 

“I’m not going to die.”

Draco scoffed, his eyes on hers. “You might.” He was leaning against the wall, almost nonchalant but she saw the tightness in his shoulders, the way his jaw ticked every time she furthered her point in his staying behind. 

“Well I’ll try not to. Rosier knows to come here to tell you about yesterday’s meeting so you have to stay here either way.” 

She needed him to stay behind, needed to talk to Riddle alone. It was insane, yes-seeing as the last time she’d been alone with him for an extended period of time she’d cursed him. But there was a haphazard plan in her mind and she was sure she’d be able to pull it off with a metric ton of occlusion and Paravati’s tips on playing hard to get. It was insane, yes, but she seemed to deal insanity in spades now. Draco would never go for it if he knew. 

Which was why she was trying and failing to convince him to stay behind. She hadn’t been exaggerating his issues with potions class while in animagus form. He sneezed nonstop, usually giving up five minutes through the door to sit in the corridor and wait for the hour to be over. He’d said something about paprika and mandrake root being overpowering when she asked. Hermione didn’t know much about animagus magic, seeing as it was a private thing for those who could perform the spell-and with the wide array of animal forms, everything was case to case. 

Oftentimes he’d get angry, far too angry to be able to joke or even talk about his animagus form. But if she understood correctly, he had a heightened sense of smell that he loathed while under the spell. Which was to be expected-foxes were part of the canidae family, same as dogs and wolves. Once, during a particularly boring study period spent in the library, she’d researched. 

He’d strangle her if he knew she was researching foxes because of him. She didn’t like studying aspects related to her friends, but these things happen. Curiosity had yet to kill the cat. 

She had no idea how strong a fox’s sense of smell was, nor how good their hearing happened to be. Hermione wanted to ask him about it, to learn, but he shut down every shot she took. The research she did changed her mind about his animagus form being an ill fit. _‘Cunning as a fox’_ wasn’t just an overused saying. If Slytherin’s mascot wasn’t a snake, she’d petition for it to be a fox. 

If it were any other time, she would have felt somewhat badly about using his only means of disguise against him, but this had to be done. It wasn’t a matter of doubting his ability to stay hidden in case Riddle did something questionable. It was a matter of his propensity for keeping her away from Riddle, sparing her as she was trying to spare him. 

But she was in no apparent danger of being murdered so she’d take one for the team. 

Even if it meant playing nice with the devil. 

**06:32 PM**

She was early to Slughorn’s _get together_ but she didn’t really know why it mattered, since everyone else was earlier. Even if she wasn’t planning on getting partnered with Riddle, she didn’t have much of a choice, as Slughorn took it upon himself to partner his two _most promising pupils._ If she didn’t know better, she’d think it an innocent partnering. But she knew how the professor was- this was a badly engineered effort in forging some kind of Marie Curie dynamic. It was like he was expecting them to be involved in the next grand discovery akin to polonium and radium. 

Maybe that was the next objective in the hellscape. 

Dying from radiation poisoning. 

But the _magic_ version. 

Hermione could admit to herself that she didn’t know _that_ much about potioneering. It was more Draco’s style. She could keep up with the advanced criteria, but some things didn’t make sense. Not in the way they did to Draco. He’d been helping her lately, as the more extreme concepts in potions class were still like gibberish. She threatened to dye his hair in his sleep if he ever teased her for needing tutoring. It hadn’t stopped him, and when she’d tried to charm his hair a bright pink, Draco had woken up and threatened to transfigure her toenails into cockroaches. 

The bastard. 

It was halfway through the meeting that she realized people were moving, joining their partners to go off and do something she didn’t pay enough attention to know about. In her defense, she was preoccupied with finding a way to go through with her plan- _subtly._ There was a time and place for Gryffindor forwardness, but this wasn’t it. She needed to channel her Slytherin side-if there even was one. Living in the snake den should have shown her everything she needed but she was still prone to doubts.

The chair to her left scraped the floor and she steeled herself, preparing for… something. 

If she was being honest, she had no idea how to school herself into an agreeable woman, she was too outspoken, too opinionated to sink below herself. _And I shouldn’t have to._ She thought bitterly. 

Riddle had started his odd interactions with her while she was still trying to keep him far, far away, so on one hand, she figured she didn’t _have_ to change. -Very much, anyway. She’d allow him polite conversation pertaining to the assignment. That could work. It would have to, as a first step. She’d never been one to seduce, but she doubted Riddle was the type to fall for those sorts of things. She knew the story of his parents. She knew a fair bit about him-hell, she could take advantage of that kind of thing. 

“Hello, Hermione.” 

She occluded to the fullest extent. She’d pretended to be Bellatrix lestrange once. She could pretend to be polite to the world’s next evil dictator. 

“Riddle.” 

_What an opener._

“Have you looked at the assignment?” 

In any other instance, he would have earned a withering look that said _‘of course I have.’_ but she’d been too busy with her thoughts to even listen to a word of what Slughorn was saying, nor did she have a chance to skim over the parchment that’d been passed to her. 

It didn’t seem to matter, as he didn’t really give her a chance to say anything, already seeming to have made his mind up. 

“I was interested in the Emerald Potion.”

“You mean the Drink of Despair.” she said dryly, her face twitching slightly. “Bit on the nose, isn’t it?” 

“I’ve no idea what you mean.” he told her, pulling a book from seemingly nowhere. “Horace already gave his permission.”

Her forced smile threatened to break at the use of their professor’s first name, like the two were _friends._ “Slughorn, a professor in charge of children aged eleven to eighteen, gave _you_ permission to brew a hallucinogenic poison?” she raised one eyebrow. “Wonderful.” she wondered if Slughorn was the one to single handedly pave the way for Voldemort. First the horcrux thing, now the potion Harry and Dumbledore suffered through to retrieve said horcrux. _Was the man mad?_

“You’re familiar with it?”

“No, I just guess potion characteristics and hope they’re correct.” she muttered, shaking her head. Draco’s sarcasm was rubbing off on her. If it bothered Riddle, he didn’t show it. 

“When are you available to work on it?”

“Wednesdays.” she said it just to see what he’d say. 

His eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, maybe less, and she saw him run his tongue over his teeth. She hated that she found the action distracting. Hated that she’d laid awake for at least an hour hating herself for finding him attractive and _maybe_ thinking about him in a less evil sense. She’d never forget who he was, but it was possible, if she focused on thee way his hair fell across his forehead in a wave and the way his jaw- _fuck._ She shouldn’t be thinking of him in any way other than a future evil overlord. She should not. _Should not._ Even if it was easy to just… appreciate him. Like art. Or something. 

Not that he was art. 

Because he wasn’t. 

If he was, then he was a Rubens. _The Massacre of the Innocents_ sprung to mind and she supposed it was fitting. If Tom Riddle was a painting, it’d be that one. Probably. No, _‘Figure with Meat’_ by Francis Bacon. That one was creepier. She needed the reminder. 

She was going to turn on him. 

“Will any other day work?” It was odd, the way he showed annoyance. A mere twitch in a stone facade. 

Frankly, she expected more. Of what, she didn’t know. “Thursdays then. We can start on it now if you have the ingredients.” it was stupid, but she didn’t want to reschedule a brewing appointment. If she was lucky, they’d get it done in one, maybe two sessions. _Maybe by the end of the day._ It was the smart thing to hope for. 

He looked surprised for a split second. If she hadn’t been around Draco so often she wouldn’t have noticed, but she was trained to watch for slight shifts in posture, the way a person’s eyes changed. 

“That alright with you?” she asked, one eyebrow raised at his silence. 

He nodded, cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, fine.” he nodded towards the open book on the table. “Horace has everything except the basilisk venom, so we’ll have to start next week.”

She scoffed. She couldn’t help it and she didn’t really know why it was funny. Or why she said it. 

“I’m sure you have that covered.”

“Pardon?” 

She met his unblinking gaze. “Don’t tell me you spend all that time in the girl’s bathroom for the _ambiance.”_

His face shifted, only slightly, but she saw the way his hands clenched to fists. “What are you getting at?” 

“Does the basilisk have a name?” she’d always wondered. 

All she got in return was a blank stare-one that was bordering on angry-well, it was hard to discern one blank stare from another. But it was easy to shrug, act nonchalant as she packed her things. “I’ll see you next Thursday.”

As she walked away, she ticked off one of the things on her mental checklist. 

_√ Get his attention._

* * *

**_Friday, September 29th, 1944_ **

She didn’t think things through. 

Sure, during Slughorn’s club, Draco wasn’t there. 

But he was everywhere else. In class, at breakfast, in the library. It wouldn’t work if she limited her _befriending_ Riddle to the instances where Draco was no longer in attendance. Which was bad, because he’d be sure to notice her sudden change in going out of her way to talk to the enemy. Well, not go out of the way, but entertain odd conversations instead of shutting them down-that was all she’d be able to manage for the time being. Stilted conversation and odd silences in his proximity. 

It was awkward, her stomach in her chest and entire body feeling constricted at the stress of it all. 

He’d be mad. He’d be livid, if she didn’t tell him. If she continued keeping this from Draco. But she had to, because he’d only convince her that it was a stupid plan. She was going to protect him. _She was._ Whether he liked it or not. 

Draco wasn’t dumb. He’d notice. It was wishful thinking that he’d pretend not to notice, but he would. He was detail oriented, almost methodical about things. Including her. 

She was stuck in her head at breakfast, Elizabeth on one side, Cygnus on the other. She had yet to see Abraxas since the common room assault attempt but that didn’t bother her. If he moved to Poland, she’d be fine with that. With never seeing him again. Because while he hadn’t truly _hurt_ her, he’d scared her. 

It was unexpected, when in hindsight, it shouldn’t have been. Draco had warned her on the first day. Said Abraxas Malfoy was not one to be underestimated. They didn’t talk about that either. Both of them knew why the attack had happened, but all Draco did to acknowledge it was sink into a fit of seething anger and something akin to despair. He blamed himself, she knew that. 

But the blame was misplaced. It belonged to Riddle and Riddle alone. He was the root of all this. Why she was doing something so fucking _stupid._ She’d already thought through everything, planned out possibilities. 

But that wasn’t the thing to plague her mind, wasn’t the thing looping her thoughts in circles and spirals until things made less sense. 

It was the dagger. 

She’d stolen it; the only evidence of Abraxas’ malevolence. Draco had warded the drawer, barred her from ever touching it, from seeing it. _‘It’s an heirloom’_ he’d said. That was _all_ he said. 

His reaction to the knife made her want to ask questions. She never voiced them, but they were always ready at the tip of her tongue. But if she was keeping such a monumental thing from him, he was okay to omit facts about something as inane as a Malfoy heirloom. 

But it was still strange that he’d have such a reaction. 

Rodolphus’ voice brought her back from her thoughts, reminding her that she was supposed to be eating and acting normal and not spacing out. 

“Oi, Malfoy, are you done with that athame yet?” 

Hermione looked up from her plate, quickly smothering the fear stinging her nerves. Malfoy as in Abraxas. Not Draco. But the fear threatened to come back when she saw the way Abraxas looked at her, the hatred clear in his eyes. 

“Soon” was all Abraxas said. 

She didn’t know how a single syllable towards someone else sounded like a promise of something malevolent to come, but that’s what she got from it, from the look in his eyes, so similar and dissimilar to Draco’s all at the same time. It was clear they were related, even without the annoyingly blond hair. Yes, they were similar, but where Draco was refined, Abraxas was rough. He still had that air of sophistication and privilege, but he reminded her more of a brutish quidditch player than an aristocrat. 

If she’d been paying attention, she would have tried to remember what the fuck an athame was, but she had no real idea, not that it mattered. She had no interest in what Abraxas had or hadn’t returned to Rodolphus Lestrange. 

The entirety of breakfast, she pretended they weren’t there, that she was _actually hungry,_ that she was _actually_ interested in Elizabeth’s date idea for McGonagall. It was surprisingly easy to ignore the fact that she was hearing intimate details about a woman she knew in her childhood- _an old woman._ One she looked up to. If she separated _Minerva_ from _Professor McGonagall,_ she had no issues. They seemed like two different people so they were. 

It didn’t make much sense, but coping mechanisms hardly ever do. 

“Hermione, can I walk you to class?” 

She resisted the urge to make over-exaggerated gagging motions in the face of politeness. Instead, she nodded, keeping her face blank on purpose. _Chivalry._ A different form, but still suggesting she couldn’t somehow navigate a space she was familiar with. It was almost like he expected her to be attacked by someone else. Maybe she would be. 

She had to remember to play nice. 

They didn’t talk much on the walk to the first class of the day. It was to be a shared hour between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. She didn’t bother to learn anyone’s names, not that it really mattered. She wasn’t planning on sticking around long enough to have to know them. 

It could’ve been wishful thinking, hoping it wouldn’t matter, but if she was being honest, all of the people around her weren’t _her_ classmates. They were someone else’s. The Ravenclaw with long blonde hair at the front of the room should have been Luna, the witty brunette should have been Cho. Getting to know them would only backfire. 

But she had to get to know Riddle. She’d made a mission for herself. 

Objective one: fake the ability to bear to be around Riddle just long enough to seem friendly. 

Objective two: draw his attention away from Draco. 

Objective three: find a way to get the fuck out of 1944. 

The priorities might have been rearranged, but if they couldn’t get back home, they were bound to be stuck dealing with Riddle until graduation. Whatever came after that- well it was a long ways off. She didn’t need to think about the possibility of living out her adult life in the past. The possibility of dying before she was born. 

It was a nightmare. 

“You don’t seem very shaken up.”

Hermione resisted the urge to look at him while she spoke. If she looked, she’d see _him_ and if she saw _him,_ she’d remember who he was, who he’d become. “I’ve faced worse” 

“Like what?” 

This was new territory. He was curious, that wasn’t new, but now she was inclined to answer. Because she had to play nice. Really, it was no skin off her back if she shared some idiotic detail about her adventures from years past. She shrugged, pretended he was someone else. Someone nice. So she told him. About the troll in the bathroom, the three headed dog, the other instances of traipsing through danger.

If he wanted in, she’d let him think he was in. 

The walk was just short enough to fit in a conversation bordering on friendly, though she noticed that she was the only one doling out details. Not that she needed any from him. She had her own experiences from the war, from school, from Harry’s own insight from the odd horcrux bond, from Ginny’s drunk recollections about what had happened while ‘possessed’. Draco’s familiarity hadn’t hurt either, as he knew more about the logistical side of Voldemort. If he wanted to know things she’d tell him irrelevant stories that omitted the truth. 

It was nothing but a part to play, an objective to complete. 

That’s what she told herself, anyway. 

* * *

**_Sunday, October 1st, 1944_ **

**09:13 A.M.**

Autumn seemed to arrive overnight with October. Instead of lush lawns and meticulously pruned shrubbery, there was dry grass underfoot and a chill in the air, carrying with it the scent of dead leaves and rain to come. 

They wore heavy wool cloaks over long sleeves, brushed shoulders as they walked. Draco didn’t mind the proximity- craved more of it. But he was keeping his distance. He shouldn’t have kissed her, shouldn’t have goaded her into doing it again. 

Maybe that was why she’d been so withdrawn lately. Because she regretted it. Regretted him. It was better than his alternate theory, which only made him think _very bad_ thoughts. 

She’d stopped complaining about Riddle. Hell, she stopped mentioning him completely. 

Draco had seen the way they interacted in class, at breakfast. There wasn’t something between them, no. Hermione wasn’t that stupid. _He hoped._ But there was a shift in dynamics. Instead of finding an excuse to get away, she entertained Riddle’s attempts at conversation, some of them bordering on friendly, maybe flirty. If Draco were a jealous man, he’d be _very_ jealous. 

A lie. 

Draco Malfoy was a jealous man. And he was jealous. Not that there was anything to be jealous about. Not that he had a right to _be_ jealous. No matter what he did, he would never deserve the witch. Never match her in bravery and righteousness. He couldn’t hold a candle to Hermione Granger. 

But that fact didn’t stop him from thinking about it. 

About her. With Riddle. 

Alone. 

It drove him insane. 

Part of him wondered if Abraxas was _supposed_ to attack Hermione. She hadn’t told him much about the details of that night, but Draco knew that Riddle was probably there. Probably had a hand in things. 

He almost asked her more that night, but the knife had distracted him, thrown him into his past. It was a tangible reminder of his not deserving to even be _around_ the witch. Hermione didn’t seem to remember, but he did. He’d never forget it. So he locked it away, not from her, but himself. He’d never hurt her, not on purpose, but the arrival of the knife told him to be wary. It was a piece of his past, of his beginnings. 

“Allison asked to meet at Honeydukes.”

Draco looked sidelong at her. But didn’t say anything. He wasn’t in charge of Hermione. She was her own person, able to do as she pleased. But he didn’t trust anyone in Slytherin. He’d heard stories. He was one of them. He knew how they worked, how they colluded. His meeting with Rosier had been -for lack of a better word- _useless._ He hadn’t gotten much from their imperiused spy, but he didn’t really need to know Riddle’s every thought to figure out what he was planning. 

“I know it’s probably a trick.”

“Then why go?” 

Hermione shrugged. “If we let him think he’s ahead, he’ll drop his guard.”

Draco didn’t agree but he didn’t say as much. “Be careful.”

“I will.” she said it with an odd look on her face, like she expected pushback. 

He’d given up on trying to change her mind about things. He’d be there for the fallout, that was the most he could do. He had to remind himself that she was not his. She wasn’t to be controlled, nor swayed from whatever she set her mind to. It was he who was going to be _tested_ today, not her. She was safe. He could handle himself. 

“I think he wants me distracted so he can get you alone.” she muttered, eyes on a pair of witches up the street as they walked. “What does he want with you?”

“Nothing good.”

She stopped a moment, her hand on his elbow to keep him from walking without her. “I’m serious. You’ve named yourself the resident Riddle expert, so spill.”

Draco looked around, saw too many students from Hogwarts. Too many that could be listening, working under Riddle’s orders. “Not here.” he told her, nodding to a side street a few feet away. No one would be there to listen. To overhear. 

“Fine.” she mumbled, dragging him towards the alley. It was a stark contrast to the main streets of Hogsmeade, the cobblestones split and grown over with moss, old copies of the daily prophet plastered to the walls by the wind and stuck on with rain. “What are you thinking?” she turned towards him, arms crossed, all her weight on one hip. 

“He’s acting out of character.” 

She raised one eyebrow. “How do you mean?” 

Draco pulled on his occlumency, lest he actually sound nervous. Worried. He had to be clinical about this or she’d disregard the information as something borne of his own feelings. And it was, partially; because if he didn’t care about her he wouldn’t have noticed. Wouldn’t have cared. 

“He hasn’t hurt you.”

She scoffed, looked anywhere but him. “And that’s out of character? Not being a homicidal maniac?” 

“You cursed him, Granger. That should have earned you something from his stash of hexes but you’re still breathing.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything. 

“He’s trying to get you alone by alienating the few people you keep close.”

“Are you saying you think he _expected_ you to pull that stunt last weekend?”

Draco shook his head. “No, I think he was pushing you to see if you’d break.”

“Did I?” 

“No, I did.” 

Her face scrunched up for a moment in thought. “Did you do it on purpose?” 

“No. But if his focus stays off you, it’ll be better for both of us.”

She narrowed her eyes at that, stepped closer. “And why do you get to decide that?”

Draco wanted to bring up her newfound tolerance of their least favorite evil dictator but he didn’t. If she knew that he knew about her ill thought out plan, then she’d try harder to sneak around. If he let her believe she was doing a fine job of sneaking about, he could keep an eye on her. Instead of arguing her _secret activities,_ he hit her with facts. 

_Her facts._

“If he’s looking for me, he won’t be looking at you. His focus will be on finding me again.” Draco crossed his arms. “You’re the one that said it’d be better if he wasn’t paying attention to things going on inside the castle.”

“Well I changed my mind.”

He scoffed at that. “You think he’s going to lay off once you’re _friends?”_

“It’s easier than him plotting against me all the time.” she argued, “he’ll drop his guard.”

“He’s not going to stop following you around. He’s obsessive.”

Hermione blinked, stepped back like he’d just pushed her. “Why?” 

“Because he gets what he wants. If you give him one thing, he’ll _take_ ten.”

She held out a hand to stop him, shaking her head. “No, no why would he be obsessed with _me?”_ she gestured towards herself. “What is it about me?” 

Draco didn’t want to tell her. So he switched gears. “Allison’s probably looking for you.”

“Don’t change the subject. Why?” 

“I told you already, he wants to recruit you.” Draco resisted the urge to displace the nervous energy tugging at his nerves, resisted the urge to reach for his wand; make sure it was still there. In his pocket. Where it always was. “You’re playing into his hands. He’s going to try and keep you.” 

Her face was doing that thing where she couldn’t decide if she wanted to burst into nervous laughter or go on a rampage about feminism. “And why would he think it possible?” 

“He thinks he can do anything he wants. Have you seen anyone aside from you tell him _no?”_ Draco didn’t give her time to answer. “He likes things that aren’t normal. Things he can’t understand. Look at his obsession with Potter.”

She snorted, shook her head. “What? So I’m the next _chosen one?”_

“Well he’s not trying to kill you like he did Potter now is he?” He swore she turned a shade paler. “He’s going to try something today. I’m willing to bet he’s got Allison distracting you from my inevitable abduction.”

“What are you, a Seer now?” 

“You sit in on enough Death Eater meetings and you notice a pattern.” 

Her expression turned sour at the reminder of who he was before, but she nodded all the same. “Fine. We just won’t let him take you.” 

“No, it’s not like he’s going to kill me. Not when he doesn’t _have_ you.”

“Then why would he do this _now?”_

“He’ll try to turn us against each other to speed things up. We can let him think it’s worked.” Draco shrugged. “You should have stayed for Rosier’s sad excuse of an update. You’d already know this.” Rosier hadn’t given much information, but it’d been enough when combined with Draco’s familiarity of the Dark Lord. “You go with Allison and I’ll get myself kidnapped.”

Her hand darted out, grabbed his wrist like he’d be taken then and there. “Are you insane?” she almost screamed it. “No!” 

“He’ll only try again.” 

“It’s a stupid plan.” She tightened her grip on his wrist. “You aren’t doing this.”

“I’ve already told Rosier where to find me. It’s happening whether you like it or not.”

“Well tell Rosier to fuck off. You aren’t going with them!” she’d stepped closer, the wind twisting her hair around her face, making her look wilder than usual. “You don’t have to do this twice.”

“I’m not _doing_ anything, I’m seeing what he wants.”

Hermione’s gaze threatened to set him on fire. “I don’t like it. What if he does something?” the rest of her words hung unspoken in the air, but they both knew. _‘What if I’m not there?’_

Draco resisted the urge to twist out of her grip, to run. Ignored the alarm bells going off in his head. “Granger, I’ve dealt with him once. I can do it again. I don’t need protecting. We’ve talked about this. It’s best he looks at me and not you.”

“You don’t have to sacrifice yourself.” her tone was sour, almost worried as she stared up at him. “You shouldn’t have to.” 

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes at her. “Granger, it’s a single meeting; it’s not like I can become a Death Eater twice.”

“You’d be the first to try.” she said, tone sour. 

It was odd, having someone worried about him. His mother did, sure, but she’d allowed him to take the mark, allowed him to become what he did. Hermione wanted something for him, wanted him to be better. But that mindset wouldn’t work, not with Tom Riddle. Someone worrying would only make things worse, put them in the line of fire as well as himself. 

“You shouldn’t care what happens to me, Granger.”

“Well I do, you fucking douchebag-” from her, it was a strange term of endearment. “You’re not doing his bidding for my sake.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

She loosened her grip but didn’t let go. “Am I? You’re talking about walking straight into the snake den.” 

“I _am_ a snake Granger. This is what I do.”

“Excuse me for forgetting.” she muttered. “What if he has a test? What if he makes you do something?” 

“What? Like pin someone’s hand to a table? Or flay them with a letter opener?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’m not above violence, that’s why I said I’d be the one to do this when we started on our little endeavor.” _-it’s not like you can do it_ hung unsaid between them. 

“And that doesn’t bother you?” 

“What did you think I did in the manor? Host tea parties?” 

She looked more annoyed than anything, which was a surprise. He expected some high and mighty speech about ethics. “Well you won’t really tell me, so for all I know, that’s _exactly_ what you did.”

“Do you want a complete dissertation?” Draco was challenging her on purpose, trying to get her to go, to stop caring, to leave. “If he wants a pet project I’ll give him one. We both know his asking after me isn’t going to stop. Keeping him away is only prolonging the inevitable.”

“Then I’ll go with you.” 

He wanted to throttle her. “I distinctly remember him saying _alone._ He won’t go for that.” He also didn’t want her there if he had to hurt someone, she’d never look at him the same. It’d be the nightmare ordeal all over again but much worse. Things between them would be irreparable. She’d insisted she was over it, but he saw flashes of doubt, flashes of fear every once in a while. “If he thinks he’s getting what he wants, he’ll overlook what we’re doing.”

“And you think you can do that? Give him what he wants?” 

“I’ve done it before.” He needed to remind her, needed to keep reminding her, because her attachment was going to be their downfall. “I’ll do it again.” 

“I was under the impression he had some kind of vendetta against all Malfoys. Isn’t he predisposed to hating your every move? What if it’s the blond hair?” 

Draco didn’t say anything, lest she find out about his personal commendation from Voldemort himself; the praise and everything else. She didn’t need to know. 

“You want me to just let them whisk you away and _what?_ Put you through some test to see if you have what it takes to be part of an evil dictator’s army?” Hermione was on the verge of flipping out, he could tell. “No.”

“I don’t know why you’re so worked up over this. It’s _me.”_

That only set her off more, and he was sure if there was something to throw, he’d have to duck. “Because, _idiot._ As hard as it may be to believe, I care about what happens to you now.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the _smart_ one?”

She smacked his chest-lightly, but enough to convey anger. “I don’t like it.” 

“It doesn’t matter if you like it, it’s happening anyway.” Draco had come to terms with it since the meeting with Rosier, since Rosier’s saying Riddle was trying to drive a wedge between them. 

“And what if you need backup or something? The last time we were separated I accidentally started a war.”

“A skirmish, not a war-and if I remember correctly, that was your doing.” 

“Can you be serious for one minute? What if he kills you?” 

Draco scoffed. “I doubt he’ll do anything that drastic yet.” 

“Yet?” 

“Did you think we’d be in a perpetual game of cat and mouse forever?” Draco let his tone stay dry, clinical. “Unless we get out of this, we’re stuck with him or dead.”

“I hate this.” she muttered, leaning against the wall of the building. “It’s exhausting.”

He took the chance to check the time. “They won’t wait all day.” 

“You think they’ll actually kidnap you?” 

Allison’s asking Hermione to Honeydukes was no coincidence, not after Riddle’s ‘interest’. Draco knew more than anyone what to expect. He’d ignored the goings on of things when Voldemort was living under the same roof, but he wasn’t oblivious to what was going on, the inner workings of the war room, what they planned, what they favored. 

“It’s the only logical thing he’d do aside from holding you hostage and trying to draw me out that way. He’s made it obvious he won’t do anything untoward to you so yes, I’m sure.” 

Hermione’s grip tightened again. 

“I’ll be fine.” he told her, catching sight of her panic-it was well hidden, but there. 

“What if you aren’t?” 

He could only shrug. 

She had that look on her face, the one that said she had an idea but didn’t know how to say it, wary of what he’d do or say. It was something she knew he’d disagree with. 

“Spit it out, Granger.”

“You aren’t going to like it.” 

“I don’t like a lot of things.” he muttered, narrowing his eyes at her. “What is it?”

She bit her lip, looked down at their feet, then at the wall, the sky, anything but him. “We should use the spell again, in case something happens.” Her hesitance told him _which_ spell. And she was right in her reluctance, because he hated the idea. She met his eyes and he knew he was done for. “I know you don’t like it, but if we’re separated I think it’s the best way to do this.” 

He couldn’t fault her logic. Because it was a smart idea. But their last experience with the spell had backfired monumentally. It’d been his fault, she’d been the one hurt, and now she wanted to do it all over again. “Have you forgotten what happened last time?” 

“I reread the memoir and it didn’t say anything about shared dreams-”

“They stopped when you ended the spell. That doesn’t strike me as a coincidence.”

Hermione shrugged, crossed her arms. “Well it’s not like either of us are sleeping during this.” She had a point, but he was still wary. “What if he decides to throw you down a well?”

“What’s your obsession with throwing people down wells?” 

She ignored the attempt at delaying things. “Yes or no?” 

He heaved a sigh, shook his head. “You’ve already made up your mind.”

“I don’t want to force you into it, I just think-”

“I know, Granger, it’s a good idea.” he narrowed his eyes. “Loathe as I am to admit.”

“Well I think your doing this is a dumb idea so we both have to compromise.” she raised one eyebrow. “Was that a yes?”

“You don’t like to hear no.”

She started bristling and he knew he’d struck a chord. “Neither do you.” she raised an eyebrow, “Are we doing this or not?” 

It’s not like he could tell her no. 

**10:26 A.M.**

The pair left the sidestreet with the spell tethering them together. Draco had almost brought up her recent adventures with Riddle-she hadn’t sought backup, and he couldn’t say anything about it lest she find out that he knew she was keeping it from him. It was hypocritical when they were both doing the same thing, but she was accepting more danger. 

They’d agreed to keep away from the telepathic bond unless absolutely necessary, lest Riddle somehow intercept something via legilimency. Neither knew enough about the spell to guarantee complete secrecy. 

Draco made sure to completely occlude. Anything that slipped through the bond had the potential to scare Hermione away- or make her worry and come running. For all intents and purposes, he considered himself to be going in alone. He had no idea what to expect from Riddle other than a general _meddling_ in things. All things considered, they hadn’t interacted with him very much. 

It was smarter to draw Riddle’s attention toward himself and away from Hermione. He itched to tell her as much, repeat it until it got through and stuck in her head. She wasn’t obvious with what she was trying to do, but Draco knew Gryffindors were perfectly fine with sacrificing themselves for someone. He didn’t want to be that someone. 

He didn’t deserve it, not from Hermione Granger. 

**10:42 A.M.**

It was Rosier that came to get him, wand drawn but kept close to his side lest passerby notice something off. Draco went quietly, followed the man to the forest. They knew what they had to do, knew to do what they were told. It was equal part curiosity, and the need to protect Hermione that allowed him to go along with things, to repeat his worst choices in life. 

**“We’ll be in the shrieking shack”** he pushed the words through the bond. He’d agreed to let Hermione know what was happening, where he’d be as thongs went on. 

**“I still hate that you’re going.”** came her reply. Draco didn’t give her anything in return, there was nothing he could say to change her mind, not when she was so stubborn. So _not_ selfish. 

She was rubbing off on him, because he wasn’t doing this for himself. He was doing it for Hermione, to keep Riddle away from her. It was something a selfless Gryffindor would do. He wanted to gag at the thought. 

It’d all be for nothing if they were both trying to fight over Riddle’s attention. She’d gone behind his back, she’d come up with a plan of her own. He didn’t know what it was, but they were more similar then he’d ever admit. He was willing to bet the witch was trying to draw interest towards herself and away from him. It was the same thing he was doing. Eventually, he’d have to bring it up. Put a stop to it. The sooner the better. 

He pushed the thought out of his head, because her blatant disregard for what they’d agreed to and planned together was frustrating enough. Even more so that they were actually fighting over Voldemort’s attention like he was some father figure to be pleased with them for good grades and playing a decent game of quidditch. 

Rosier hadn’t stopped talking, still under the impression that Draco was one to care about inane daily activities, about his sister’s wedding planning. “...bird of paradise is what she called it, says it’ll be for the centerpieces. I’ve never heard of it but I s’pect it’ll be-”

“We shouldn’t talk.” Draco interrupted the man, tired of the noise. It was easy enough to slip into old habits, the man he was at the manor. 

“Why?” Rosier asked, turning half way around, half shocked. 

“It's depressing me.”

Maybe it was his tone, maybe it was the look on his face that reminded Rosier who he was, what he’d done. It shut him up, and that was all he really cared about. He wanted quiet. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts-as alone as he could be, with the bond nestled in the base of his skull, a warm kind of tether, the slight reminder of Hermione. 

He’d have to ignore that. It’d do him no good. 

The walk was silent aside from the dry leaves rustling around them, their steps dragging through gravel, the wind creeping through bare trees. The building looked less dilapidated, the roof still having most shingles but aside from that, it was no different than 1998’s very own shrieking shack. Part of him wondered if it was less known now, no longer visited by first years, but upon remembering the history of the passageway hidden underneath, Draco knew it was only a shack to these people- the building lacked a werewolf to wail at night. 

But maybe the wails came from a different kind of tortured soul, the more literal sense.

They stopped a few yards away from the front door, for the expected ominous elements of the shack to set in, no doubt. As if the mere sight of a door with a wrought iron knocker and foiled windows would instill fear. 

“Your wand.”

Draco eyed Rosier, one brow raised in a silent challenge. “If you want it, you’ll have to disarm me the old fashioned way.” The wizard's face betrayed nothing, but his eyes told a different story. Rosier was still afraid of him, that much was obvious. “I suggest you practice occlusion while we’re inside, we don’t need your _master_ asking questions about your inexplicable aversion to me.”

“I’m not-”

“Don’t lie, Rosier. You’re terrible at it.”

With a half pained look, Rosier’s expression shuttered to something blank, something clean of emotion. “I still need your wand.”

Draco rolled his eyes, pushed the door open.

The entryway and everything else looked the same. Grey floors with a generous layer of dust and stains, faded wallpaper from godric knows when, and destroyed furniture. It looked like a duel gone bad. Draco knew they’d be in the sitting room, so he went on without Rosier. He didn’t need a babysitter. Or an escort, or anything else. 

“You can’t just-” Rosier’s panicked whisper followed from the hallway and Draco slammed the door shut on him. 

He always did like a dramatic entrance.

Riddle, Cygnus, and Rodolphus were sitting at an obviously conjured card table, halfway through what looked like poker. An odd choice, considering the origins, but he couldn’t imagine them playing any of the wizard substitutions. Riddle was the first to speak. Big surprise there. 

“I see Rosier’s found you.”

Draco shrugged, conjured his own chair at the table. “Made it easy for him.”

Dark eyes surveyed him, a slow sweep of Draco’s clothes, his conjured spellwork, the closed door. “I was under the impression we’d have to hunt you down.” Riddle raised one eyebrow. 

Draco kicked his feet up on the table, ignored the disapproving looks from his ascendants. “I didn’t feel like looking over my shoulder for the foreseeable future.” Draco wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but the situation was far from favorable. He didn’t like being away from Hermione as much as she hated watching him go. “You were looking for me, now you’ve found me. What do you want?” he wanted to skip the pleasantries, get this over with. 

“All business. Some could learn a few things from you.” Riddle stated, a false smile across his face as he glanced toward Rodolphus. “There’s been a development since-”

“Your goon attacked Granger, I’m aware.” Draco knew it was playing with fire, interrupting Riddle’s spiels, but he wasn’t the one to be burned. “If you’re vying for a chance to apologize, you should have asked _her_ to your little tea party.”

“Abraxas would be the one to apologize, but he refuses.” Riddle’s face turned pinched, annoyed. “I thought we could use it as a teaching moment.”

“And you needed me for that?” Draco asked, his tone bored, doubting.

“I thought the offer would allow some balance.” Riddle stated, sliding a plain knife across the table. “It’s only fair.”

Draco wanted to laugh, because he felt like he’d been transported back to the manor, warping Death Eaters just enough to bend them to listen to orders without a second thought. Nothing had changed between 1944 and his own time. He’d do it, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. Abraxas was still a direct relative, he couldn’t completely endanger either of their lives. 

It sucked. 

“So what is this? You want me to do your dirty work?” Draco asked, tilting the chair back on two legs. “Might be below my paygrade.”

“Seemed plenty above last weeknight.” Came Lestrange’s voice, nonsensical as ever. “Or did I mishear the retelling?” 

Cygnus made a noise that almost resembled a scoff. “English, Lestrange.”

“My English is just _dandy.”_

“It’s too early in the day for your idiotic versions of colloquialism.” 

Riddle sighed, glaring between his lackeys. “What have I told you about speaking out of turn?” 

Rodolphus’ face turned grim. “To _not to.”_

“That’s what I thought, but you can never be too sure.” Riddle muttered, shifting his attention in Draco’s direction. “I would think you’d jump at the chance to finish what you’ve started.”

“Do you have alzheimer’s _already?_ _You_ came to _me.”_ Riddle’s face twitched at the jibe, a tell he shouldn’t have; Draco almost smiled at it. “It doesn’t matter who started what, you’re the one continuing this charade.” Draco pushed the knife away, a slight rejection. “Abraxas is your problem.”

“Hear that Malfoy? Your newfound _enemy_ wants to take the high road.” Riddle looked toward the corner of the room, and Draco noticed Abraxas for the first time. 

His grandfather turned around, faced Riddle with a variety of emotions across his face. “I don-”

“It was a yes or no question. Get back in the corner.” Riddle interrupted, a wave of his wand forcing Abraxas back to face the wall. It was more demeaning than funny, being treated as a child. It wasn’t a creative punishment by any means, but psychologically it had to bother him. _“Rosier!”_

Evan Rosier stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn’t speak, his eyes on his feet. 

“Get to work.”

Draco watched Rosier’s shoulders straighten, his jaw tick as he conjured a simple wooden chair. Abraxas was dragged over, sat down in the chair, his hands and feet bound with a mumbled spell. Rosier stopped, looked at Riddle, almost as if seeking permission. 

“What do you think?” asked Riddle, a smug look on his face. “Surely you have an opinion?”

He didn’t bother with a real answer, only a noncommittal shrug. Draco wasn’t one to give input on the way a person was tortured or punished. He always made his own decisions. “Rosier’s a big boy, I’m sure he can figure something out.”

Lestrange shook his head, a disappointed look on his face. “Thunder strikes lightning, you seem like that kind-”

“Shut up Roddy- _Merlin_ you’re an idiot.” Cygnus interjected, sending the man a sidelong look. “You never know when to stop.”

Draco wasn’t used to disorganized insubordination but it was entertaining to watch it all unfold. They had one of their own trussed up to be tortured by his friend, and they were arguing about speaking out of turn. It was borderline comical in contrast to the way things were at the manor. He clasped his hands in his lap, watching but not speaking. 

Screams tore through the air, a dim red light flickering over the walls. 

He didn’t want to listen to it, tried blocking it out by closing his eyes. To be frank, it was boring. Draco expected more from a teenaged Dark Lord. **“do you want to play a game, Granger?”**

 **“Did they throw you down a well?”** Hermione’s tone sounded worried through the bond, and he was glad to have mastered Occlumency else he would have smiled or something. 

**“No, they’re just boring.”**

**“Are you kidding me? You’ve been gone for two hours and it’s** **_boring?”_ ** she sounded exasperated; he could almost see the look on her face. 

**“Has it been that long? We’ve hardly done anything.”** Maybe the walk was longer than he’d thought. Or maybe she was just being dramatic. It was hard to tell. 

**“What are they doing?”**

Draco opened his eyes, surveyed the table. Riddle, Cygnus, and Rodolphus were playing poker, Abraxas’ screams muffled through a shoddy silencing charm. He sent her the mental image, sans torture, and he could _feel_ the surprise through the bond. 

**“Are they playing** **_poker?”_ **

**“It’s not Texas Hold’em, but yes.”**

**“That’s** **_criminal.”_ ** She almost sounded offended. **“I could have gone with you. It’s a glorified boy’s night.”**

Draco looked at Abraxas, his head hung low as the curse coursed through him, pulling tendons tight enough to snap. **“Rosier’s tied my grandfather to a chair, I don’t think you’d be a fan.”** He could feel her irritation at the words, but something else as well. He didn’t have a chance to get a better feel for it before Riddle’s voice was ruining his mental conversation. 

“You don’t seem bothered by our methods.” it was a question behind the tone. Riddle looked expectant. 

Glancing at the mess that would be his grandfather in a few decades, Draco nearly rolled his eyes. “Am I supposed to be?”

“He seems bored,” Lestrange leaned into Cygnus, “Does he seem bored to you?”

“I am.” Draco told them in a low drawl. “I was expecting something more...” Draco waved his hand lazily. "... well _anything,_ really."

Rosier’s scoff was barely discernible over the sounds of Abraxas’ screaming. 

**“Granger, you never said yes or no to my game.”**

Riddle passed the knife to his pet persecutor.

 **“I’m not playing a** **_game_ ** **while you’re supposed to be doing whatever it is you’re doing. You need to be focused.”**

The red flashes tapered away. 

**“I can multitask.”**

A different kind of scream tainted the quiet. 

**“Well _I_ can’t; if I ask Allison to repeat herself one more time I think she might hex me.”**

Iron stung the air. 

**“You’re no fun.”**

Riddle was smiling. 

**“Focus on not blowing your cover, douchebag.”**

His hands itched. 

**“You’ll regret saying that, Granger.”** Draco set the chair back on two legs and spoke aloud. “Rosier, you’re boring me. Give it here.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paintings Hermione references are #8 and #24 (but what they look like aren't that pertinent to the story):  
> https://onedio.co/content/35-of-the-most-gruesome-and-unsettling-paintings-in-western-art-11723
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments! some of the things y'all say make me want to print them out and pin them to the wall to keep my ego at peak levels. -which would be very bad because I'm enough of an egomaniac already. 
> 
> p.s. I updated the tags a little bit  
> a teensy tiny bit


	12. Catalyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s not like we can kill him without immeasurable consequence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dubious consent and graphic depictions of gore ahead.  
> -but not at the same time.
> 
> [Chapter word count: 9,400]

* * *

I'd kill to fall asleep and never wake up,

but there's people I've let down so I haven't given up.

You know I've had enough when there's a letter folded up,

with your name on it.

I may be evil

I may be vile,

but you must be stupid,

'cause I made you smile.

Won't you take another look at the things I've had to say?

I'm broken and empty but I try to make a change.

I've ruined many things, traveled ‘cross the seas,

just to throw it away.

I may be evil

I may be vile,

but you're fucking stupid,

and I'm just a child.

_Landon Tewers - I May Be Evil_

* * *

**_Sunday, October 1st, 1944_ **

**01:13 P.M.**

Less is always more when it comes to pain. 

It’s simple, easy. 

Half of it is the suspense, the tension between prisoner and persecutor. The way you hold yourself. Draco had long mastered the craft of coming off as uncaring, a stone wall in the face of one’s anguish. It was easier if the person deserved it. 

It was _always_ easier. 

And Abraxas… well, Draco wanted to paint the walls with his blood. It was almost poetic that they were related, that they were both guilty of the same crimes. It was almost like punishing himself. Abraxas had gotten off easy with Rosier. The man lacked tact, jumping straight to the pain and skipping the rising action, the buildup, the suspense. It’s arduous work, getting to that point just before a true peak of torment.

Evan Rosier was _sloppy,_ too quick to skip steps. 

Anyone can cause harm, bring forth pain, but not everyone can instill fear.

Draco had more experience, more control, more ideas. He was of a darker mind and soul; permanently scarred from his experiences and the stains on his skin. He hadn’t always been like this, and that’s what gave him some kind of complex about being the best. He’d taught himself how to ruin someone. There was no urge, like Riddle, like Rosier. He’d evolved, adapted to his surroundings. 

He was not born like this.

He was made this way. 

Draco dragged the chair over, straddling the back so he was eye level with Abraxas; his grandfather, his blood, _his family._ For a while, he only observed the man in front of him. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got stagefright now.” Abraxas sneered, blood dripping down his face from his hairline, blond hair turning rusted. “You aren’t that-”

The borrowed blade cut through the wizard’s cheek, the sudden sting of a wound silencing him. “Don’t speak unless spoken to,” Draco told the wizard, tilting his chin up with the knife. “You’ve caught me in a _foul_ mood. I don’t want to hear whatever it is you have to say.”

A scoff from Abraxas, another slash of the knife, this time along his jaw. 

Draco wasn’t cutting deep enough to pull anything but a slight smart of pain. There was a balance. Cut too deep, a person doesn’t feel it. Too shallow and you can cause more pain with less damage. 

“She didn’t tell me what you did,” Draco told him, the knife dangling between his fingers, drawing Abraxas’ eyes. “Do you feel like talking about something useful or would you prefer I dig it out myself?” 

“I’ll _get you_ for this.” escaped through Abraxas’ grit teeth. 

A deep sigh escaped Draco, out of disappointment or contentment, it was hard to tell. He wasn’t thinking about his emotions; he wasn’t feeling them. This was his game, his comfort zone. It was almost mechanical, the way he so easily fell into using a knife, to causing harm. He wasn’t born like this, but he might as well have been- what with his parents fucking up so monumentally in their allegiances. 

There’d always been something about symmetry that called to him. Be it from some convoluted form of OCD or something else, Draco went out of his way to create balance. If he were versed in psychology, he’d say it was because his life was so out of control, so imbalanced. But he wasn’t, so let’s not say any more on the subject lest we get ourselves into trouble.

It was the need for symmetry that pushed him to use legilimency. He had to know, had to see what Abraxas had done to her. Sometimes, he considered revenge to be a form of balance, symmetry. An eye for an eye. 

If Abraxas wouldn’t _tell_ Draco what he’d done, he’d have to show him. Legilimency was simple, more so than occlumency; it was easier to take a memory rather than guard one. Far easier when you weren’t gentle about it. Draco had experienced both versions of the spell; the vicious methods of Riddle-which felt like knives tearing through tissue, and the lighter touch of those purely after information-unwilling to inflict pain. It was easy to pick an approach for Abraxas. Draco wanted the man to burn. 

The spell was like plunging into water, visions of stolen memories pulled from a weak mind. When Draco felt resistance, he directed a stinging hex towards the fresh cuts on the man’s face, weak mental walls falling away in the face of pain. Draco saw Hermione’s face twisted into a grimace; mostly disgust, but a decent helping of fear as well. He saw Abraxas’ hands, the knife. 

_The knife._

On her neck, drawing blood. And then Abraxas was bound, near lifeless on the floor as a conversation took place, as Hermione stood stock still, as _Riddle_ healed her wounds. 

Draco pulled free from the spell, set his jaw. He didn’t turn to look at Riddle like he wanted to, didn’t start thinking of ways to kill him; because that was a bad idea. One that wouldn’t stop once it started. 

The information clicked together. -Riddle’s allowance for Draco to exact revenge on Abraxas wasn’t a simple thing; it was far more complex than he bothered to think about. He was there, Riddle had seen what had been done. The whole stunt was like killing two birds with one stone. A punishment and audition all in one. 

“Get what you wanted?” Abraxas attempted a leer, but his face remained mostly slack with the aftereffects of Rosier’s cruciatus. 

Draco had two options, attempt murder, or do what Riddle wanted him to do. He chose the latter, knowing things were never as simple as they seemed, especially with his life going the way it had been lately. In light of the new information, Draco wanted to go strangle Hermione for not telling him what had happened that night. He wanted to murder Riddle for- for whatever the fuck _that_ was. 

It all made sense. The slightly cordial conversations, Hermione’s _almost_ ease in being around Riddle. Something had changed, and he knew. 

He knew. 

He fucking _knew_ something was off, -something other than the whole _‘your grandfather accosted me’_ thing. Now he had proof, an unbiased retelling of events. Abraxas couldn’t alter a memory; he had no reason to. 

As helpful as Abraxas happened to be, he also deserved to be punished, _to burn_ for laying a hand on Hermione. Draco was sure of that. He’d keep it simple. Didn’t plan to do enough to warrant an extended stay in the infirmary, but he’d learned long ago that pain came easy if you truly wanted it to. If he happened to permanently scar his paternal grandfather he might not be born. He knew it was best he kept his ‘talents’ a secret. If Riddle underestimated him, that was fine, better for everyone. 

Abraxas had held a knife to Hermione’s neck, drew blood; so Draco started with that first. 

“Think it’s fun, sneaking up on women?” Draco asked, the handle of the blade rolling between his fingers. He itched to use it, to draw, to blood, to inflict pain. Abraxas deserved it; he deserved it far more than he’ll ever know. And really, it was Abraxas' fault; he started this game. Draco could only end it. “do you get off on it?”

“She deserved worse than what I gave her,” Abraxas had the gall to smile.

It was those words, well-a _single word-_ that set him off. Sent him down a path of no return.

_Deserved._

They were Draco's words. Every single time, right before a blade hit skin, he would ask himself ‘does this person deserve it?’ Most times the answer was yes. And he always made sure they did. _Always._

Hermione Granger didn’t deserve anything remotely _close_ to this caliber. She deserved the exact opposite. The thought made him freeze for a moment. If he killed his grandfather, he would never be born. If he killed Cygnus, Bellatrix would never be born. Neither would he, but that didn't seem so bad. As long as Hermione lived her life unscathed, unmarred by his relative’s insane tendencies. 

Hell, he could kill _all_ of his relatives and set the Dark Lord back quite a few lackeys. Draco hadn't forgotten that most of his family were Death Eaters, most high up on the ladder. Even himself. He had climbed the ranks easily with the help of his last name and his father’s mistakes. He could single-handedly set the Dark Lord back a dozen people if he really wanted to.

It would only cost his existence.

All things considered, that didn't seem so bad.

“You shouldn't have told me that,” Draco said, tone level as he twisted the knife between his fingers. “I might take my time with you- since we're talking about who deserves what.”

“We’ll see how tough you are when I’m not tied to a chair.” Abraxas croaked, his eyes like cold steel. “I’ll-”

Draco pressed the knife against the man’s neck, the point of the blade digging into a tendon but not breaking the skin. “What did I say about _talking?”_ he asked, tilting his head. “I don’t want to hear your empty threats.”

“They aren’t-”

The knife broke the skin, digging into muscle, forcing Abraxas to drop his head to ease the tension. 

“I meant what I said,” he growled, already annoyed. He liked it when they didn’t talk. But if Abraxas wanted to give him some kind of a challenge, he’d rise to the occasion. It was dangerous, letting Abraxas speak. He’d only anger Draco more, push him to do something rash. Nothing a _Silencio_ couldn’t fix. 

Draco did not consider himself to be a violent person. He was calculated; _yes._ He was malevolent; _yes._ But he did not go out of his way to wreak havoc upon other people. There had to be a catalyst: a simple cause-and-effect to force him to draw a blade against skin, to pull a scream from someone's throat. He didn’t go out of his way to be violent. But when push came to shove, he could step up. It didn’t take much; but he was never one to start things, only end them.

He doesn't question _why._ Why it mattered so much to him that Abraxas had hurt Hermione. caused her pain. Elicited a fear response from an otherwise fearless woman. She tried to hide it that night when she came back to the room, but Draco knew her. More than he cared to understand, more than he cared to think about. 

All that mattered is that this _man_ had scared her, frightened her. He had held a knife to her throat. The same knife that had already scarred her skin, the same knife that plagued her nightmares.

Abraxas deserved to burn, and while Draco couldn’t _truly_ set him on fire lest he kill the man, he could come close.

He dug deeper, the blade dull enough that it required a bit of force. Draco didn’t feel bad about it. He could feel the tendons splitting like fibers in a rope; see the way Abraxas sagged his head to the left, the muscle responsible for holding his head straight weakened. A slight twist of the knife, the point of the blade resting just beneath the skin, blood leaching out slow and steady. 

He itched to do worse. 

_Wanted_ to do worse. 

But he pulled away, drew his wand. Healed the wounds with a silent spell. 

And started again. 

Sewing tissue and muscle together wouldn’t lessen the suffering. It’d renew it; keep the pain alive. Draco dug the knife into Abraxas’ neck, his torso, following the same pattern the man’s hands had taken on Hermione’s skin. Used his wand to heat the blade, watched the metal cauterize the wounds as he worked. A mess of blood stained the man’s shirt, a trail of weeping blisters in the blade’s wake. 

It was somewhere around the third go that Riddle cleared his throat. Draco had forgotten he had an audience. “Lestrange, I think it’s time we send for our special guest.”

“Are you certain that’s a good idea?” Rodolphus sent an odd look towards Draco, his eyes flitting over Abraxas’ silenced form. “I-”

“You question my methods?” 

Rodolphus’ mouth snapped shut as he nodded, disapparating with a crack. 

Raising an eyebrow towards Riddle, Draco waited for some kind of explanation; he didn’t have to attempt a guess at what the man had planned. He already knew, but he wondered if there was some long-winded spiel about whatever it was Riddle _thought_ he was doing. 

“Does Hermione know who you are?” Riddle asked, expression smug. “Does she know what you’re capable of?” 

Having nothing else to do with the knife, Draco speared it through Abraxas’ leg, leaving the blade buried in muscle tissue as he turned to look at Riddle. “I don’t see why it concerns you.” 

“After seeing what you’ve done to Malfoy, I do wonder if she has an informed decision on her _company.”_ Riddle eyed Abraxas with something akin to false disdain, the true emotion- glee-hiding deep beneath the surface. “I worry for her safety.”

Draco scoffed, moved the chair sideways; Abraxas on his left, Riddle on the right, the door straight ahead-if he needed to escape that way. He wouldn’t need to, but he was always one to be careful. “You did _offer.”_ he raised his eyebrows, crossed his arms over the back of the chair. “Did you think I wouldn’t do it?”

“Partially.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“It did surprise me when you silenced him, one would think you would want to hear what he had to say.” Riddle tilted his head. “Though there’s a kind of peace while working in silence, I can see the appeal. I may try that one day.”

“That would require getting your hands dirty for once.” Draco was sure to keep his tone flat. “Do you plan on dismissing all your errand boys sometime soon? They’ll be out of a job.”

Leaning back in his chair, Riddle appraised Draco. “And why would I _ever_ do that?” he waved a hand towards Cygnus and Rosier. “They know who to follow; that it will be _me_ who brings them into the new world order.”

A scoff escaped and Draco didn’t feel too badly about it. “It’s a bit early for world domination, even for you.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.” Riddle sneered, “I was only referencing the way things will be after Grindelwald’s movement comes to fruition.”

“Oh, I’m _sure.”_ It was a thinly veiled challenge, but Draco doubted Riddle would engage, not when Hermione was supposedly set to show sometime soon. Discussions of world domination weren’t fit for a lady of her standing, surely. -Riddle’s own words. He itched to leap across the room, to tear the truth right out of the Dark Lord in front of all his lackeys, but Draco was more calculated than that. Such brazen attempts were the makings of Gryffindors, not Slytherins. 

This whole ordeal was a test, a show of dominance. Riddle could claim to not be the showboat type, but the whole _morsmordre_ thing projected over every Death Eater attack kind of offset the notion he was shy in taking credit for things. Vanity and pride was often a man’s downfall. Riddle was no exception. 

**“Rodolphus is here trying to get me to go with him-what the hell is going on?”** came Hermione’s voice through the bond, a mixture of worry and annoyance in her tone.

**“Riddle’s been plotting against me. I doubt you’ll get out of it.”**

**“This is hardly convenient.”**

**“Neither is being stuck here.”** he retorted, knowing the venom was missing from his tone. 

Their mental conversation was a quick one, undetected by anyone else in the room. Draco knew it was risky, what with Riddle’s Legilimency skills but he didn’t seem to want inside anyone’s head at the moment. Or maybe Draco’s Occlumency was that good. Egotistical thinking, really.

The loud crack of apparition broke the silence of the room and Rodolphus stood at the edge of the table, Hermione tearing free from his grasp with an expression of muted rage. 

“Ah, Hermione, wonderful.” Riddle steepled his fingers. “Now that everyone’s here, I do wish to have a discussion.”

The witch’s eyes scanned the room, faltered on Draco, stuck on Abraxas. “That’s the _only_ reason I’m here?”

Draco scoffed. “It looks like Riddle’s brought you here to prove that I’m a terrible influence.”

“Well, he’s not wrong in that sentiment.” She muttered, a pointed look at Abraxas to add to her point.

“You wound me,” Draco replied, leaning on the chair. It wasn’t new information, though he was a bit uneasy with Hermione finding him with blood on his hands for the second time. There was no real reason to torture Abraxas other than the whole ‘revenge is balance’ thing. **“Best give him what he wants, Granger. He’s brought you here to drive a wedge between us; should be easy enough to convince him it’s worked.”** he didn’t know how she’d even tolerated him; he was a monster, through and through, his latest actions only proving the sentiment. 

Hermione blinked, her eyes shuttered with signs of Occlusion. A slight nod gave silent confirmation that she understood. 

“Do take a seat, I think Abraxas has something to say to you, Hermione.” After she was seated next to Cygnus, Riddle threaded his fingers together, sent a pointed look towards the sad excuse of a man known as Abraxas Malfoy. He removed the _Silencio_ and the room was filled with a wheezing noise and something vaguely similar to whimpering. “Don’t you?”

Draco kept his face blank as Hermione’s eyes skimmed over the mess he’d made, the blood, the pain on Abraxas’ face. The knife buried to the hilt in the man’s leg like a shovel in sand, easily forgotten. The look in Abraxas’ eyes was something poisonous; akin to hatred and fury. The wizard didn’t speak, his breath rattled from deep in his throat, vocal cords torn raw from the cruciatus. 

It gave Draco some sort of comfort, seeing him like that, knowing that he was probably regretting his existence, his allegiance to the young Dark Lord; because at the very core of things, this entire charade had happened because of Tom Riddle. If he was removed from the equation, Abraxas would be sipping butterbeer in the pub having a normal Sunday. 

Instead, he was tied to a chair. 

Riddle was a capricious force, tainting everything he touched, be it by choice or happenstance. 

“I’d do it again.” Abraxas sneered, words slurred. “Bitch needs a lesson in things; doesn’t understand the way things ought to be-”

Draco pushed the knife deeper, felt it grind against bone. “I don’t think that’s what your _master_ wanted to hear.” he let his tone drop into something condescending. “And you seem to have forgotten, this is your own doing. Maybe if you chose better company, you wouldn’t be in these situations.”

“Ma-Draco! Stop it!” Hermione’s tone broke the atmosphere, changed it into something shameful. “You don’t have to do this...” 

He met her eyes, ignored the urge to shrink back from what he saw; worry, disgust, _pity?_ “I’m only following orders, Granger.” he pulled the knife free, used it to gesture toward himself. “All I’m good for, you know that.”

Abraxas scoffed, the sound strangled. “I can think of a few other-”

Draco scratched a new wound into the man’s cheek. “I liked you better when you couldn’t talk.” 

“While I agree with you on that, we are here for a _reason.”_ Riddle tilted his head with the words, eyeing Abraxas, the blood seeping from fresh wounds. “I won’t tell you again, Malfoy.”

Hermione’s form stiffened at the name, relaxing when Abraxas was the one to answer. 

“I’m so _sorry_ your little boyfriend is a psychopath.” the man teased, words falling flat. “If you need help finding a replacement, I’m sure I can lend you my services.”

Hermione crossed her arms, leaned back in the chair. “This isn’t necessary.” she aimed the words at Riddle, discomfort clear on her face. “I don’t care enough to hear anything he has to say.”

“Oh, but _I_ do, Hermione.” Riddle sent a look towards the hostage-was he even a hostage if he was there of his own volition in the first place? “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“I didn’t think I needed your _permission.”_ Abraxas snapped, wincing as he readjusted in his binds. “It’s a free for all until you become obsessed with a _common witch_ and suddenly she’s above the rules?” he tilted his head, blood dripping down the bridge of his nose, staining his already ruined shirt. Even looking the way he did, there was an air of _richness_ about him, the product of years worth of etiquette lessons and private tutors. “It was you that said revenge is best sought at the root of the problem.”

“You directly disobeyed. You undermined me, you would do well to remember that _my_ rules are held above all the others.” Riddle’s knuckles turned white, his hands gripping the sides of the chair; an attempt at grounding himself. “You’ll apologize to Hermione or find yourself left here for the remainder of the week.” a tilt of his head, appraising, considering. “Maybe two. Depends on how long it takes you to see sense.”

Abraxas set his jaw, looked between everyone in the room. Cygnus sitting silently, Rosier leaned against the wall. Rodolphus staring at his hands, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Hermione, arms crossed and expression slightly worried. Draco with the knife, spinning it between his fingers, waiting for something. Riddle, his eyes dark with anger, hands twitching where they lay. 

“Is it a true apology if one doesn’t mean it?” 

Riddle smiled, though it looked more like a flash of teeth; a predator ready to pounce. “You’re right, maybe it’s time you’re shown how sorry you _should be.”_ His eyes shifted toward Hermione but his words weren’t meant for her. “Again.”

“He shouldn’t have to-”

“Hermione,” Riddle tutted, holding up a hand to silence her. “This is only fair; it _was_ your friend that put things into motion, after all, it should be _him_ to change Malfoy’s mind.” the smile grew wider, unnatural on his face. “You trust him, don’t you?” 

Her gaze slid back and forth between Draco and Riddle, but she didn’t speak. 

“Draco-may I call you Draco?” Riddle didn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t hold back on my account, I’m sure you’re capable of changing our _dear_ Malfoy’s mind on your own.” he waved a hand. “Go right ahead.”

Draco blinked, eyed Hermione with a raised eyebrow, saw her subtle nod.

Abraxas snorted, an undignified noise. “Good luck with th-” 

“Shut up.” Draco snarled, his tone harsh as he turned to face the man. “You don’t want to see me lose my patience.”

“Oh, color me _petrified.”_ Abraxas sneered, leaning forward against the bindings. “Tell me, do you really think you can force me to change my mind?” 

“You’ll find I’m persuasive when I want to be,” Draco told him, slicing through the sleeve of the man’s uniform from bicep to wrist. “I have yet to hear any complaints.”

“Just remember, it’s down the river, not across the street.” Abraxas eyed his forearm, the knife resting just above his skin. “Death would be easier to stomach than watching your weak attempts at torment.”

Draco transfigured the knife into a scalpel, rested it above where he knew the median nerve was. “As much as I’d love to indulge you, I’m afraid you have to suffer a bit more before we get to that.” 

The scream that left Abraxas was inhuman, the combination of localized pain and hoarse vocal cords meshing together to create something animal-like. The blade dug deeper, grinding against bone and severing tendons. Abraxas’ forearm went limp, laying flat against the arm of the chair. Draco lessened the pressure, drew the scalpel down the man’s skin, separating derma from muscle. He could see the brachioradialis muscle stretching and tensing, blood turning brighter as it seeped out to meet the air in the room. 

“This can stop as soon as you see fit,” Draco told him, brandishing the scalpel like a wand. “All you need to do is say the words.”

“Pity, it was just getting good.”

Draco slid the blade between a layer of skin and sinew; used a sticking charm to keep the flayed edges from falling back into place. “I didn’t take you for a masochist.” he tilted his head, watching for a reaction. There was one, but it wasn’t what he wanted. 

“But you strike me as a sadist.” Abraxas rolled his eyes, the movement looking more like the beginnings of a faint than nonchalance. “I’m a Malfoy, you’ll find we don’t have weaknesses; especially when it comes to mere _fleshwounds.”_

He didn’t dignify that with a response. 

The blade slipped deeper, split muscle apart, dug into bone once more, scraped down the length of Abraxas’ ulna. Draco didn’t hear the screams, having learned long ago how to ignore them; to block them out if he needed to. A wet tearing noise the only sound in the room. -Well, aside from Cygnus’ breathing; which was far too heavy, similar to a kind of meditation. He had a weak stomach, Draco knew that-he’d heard stories from his mother. 

The sight was familiar, no different than the things he’d seen at the manor. He’d split apart purebloods, half-bloods, muggle borns-and now someone he was related to by blood; there was nothing that set one wizard apart from another. Pure of blood or not. 

The thought pushed the blade deeper, a scrap of muscle barely attached by a few measly strands of sinew threatening to drop to the floor. 

Blood coated Draco’s hands. 

People always say it’s glossy, thicker than water but just as smooth. In reality, it grates across skin; the cells barely discernible, but you can always tell the difference with a touch. It’s almost like chalk, more of a powdery substance than a liquid. Sure, when there’s a lot of it, things like knives slide around, become hard to hold. But he hadn’t bled Abraxas enough for anything like that to happen. In such small amounts it dried too quickly; first a dark maroon, then a bright red, finally a rotten brown. 

At that moment, Draco’s hands were stained bright and rotten with blood. 

On top of the mess he’d made, he was growing impatient. This was a generally uncomfortable situation. Maybe if Hermione hadn’t been present, if he lacked an audience, he would have been fine. Probably. 

He drew his wand and cast the spell he used to heat the blade before, but this time, he brandished the flame, eyes on Abraxas’ face. Waiting, watching for a twitch in the facade the man had built for himself. 

When it didn’t come, Draco lowered his wand to the open wound, the flayed skin. 

The scream tore free from Abraxas’ throat, a chilling tortured sound. 

You add fire to blood, it turns a shade of coal. Burnt and rotten, cracking as it dries to dust. 

And skin, well it’s more hesitant to burn. It cooks, from the outside in, more and more, the utmost layer browning, shifting to black while the lower layers are only visible through cracks, a bright pink, almost red-but different from that of blood. 

Draco had long memorized the process, the different shades, different stages. When he started on narrowing down his _process,_ he’d taken inspiration from the Dark Mark; from the flamelike sensation that burned away at nerves. It felt like fire, just bearable only because it wasn’t truly there. 

When you actually put flame to skin, things are different; if only enough to push someone over the edge. Apply heat to exposed nerves, already torn and bloodied, and it’s a decent enough recipe to get what you want. 

It was only a matter of time until Abraxas gave in. 

Draco let off, only to slice the skin deeper before the second round of flames.

“Fine-alright- _fine.”_ Abraxas’ voice was hoarse, vocal cords stretched to their limit. “I yield, I’m sorry. -I’m sorry I ever thought about it!” he looked towards Hermione. “I am; on a completely selfish level, might I add, because if I hadn’t done it, your _hound_ wouldn’t have come after me. So for that, I apologize.”

Draco leaned back, shook his head as he eyed Riddle, then Hermione. Her expression was jarringly blank but he didn’t blame the witch. Maybe they could obliviate each other later. “I believe I’m done here.” he stated, venom in his words, more than wishing they’d burn Riddle like a curse. 

“I don’t think he realizes that apologies aren’t meant to serve one’s own agenda.” Riddle replied, appraising the wounds Draco had inflicted. “He doesn’t mean it, not in the correct way.”

“He’s sorry, and I guarantee he’ll never do it again.” Hermione said it with a glare. “He’s had enough.”

“Oh but-”

“He’s had _enough.”_ Hermione repeated, rising from her chair to round the table. 

Draco watched in silence as she drew her wand, leaned over Abraxas. The skin knit itself back together with the help of a spell, but it didn’t account for the ruined segments, warping and blending the burnt sinew and derma into a seemingly unmarred limb aside from the residual scorch mark staining the man’s inner forearm. The healed product resembled a bastardized version of the Dark Mark. 

“Thank you” Abraxas whispered, though it was more of a croak as he watched his skin heal under her attentions. 

“I’m not doing this for you.” she spat, straightening up and sending a softened glare in Draco’s direction. “Just because some of us are fucked in the head doesn’t mean we all have to suffer.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at her words, half wondering if they had a double meaning. If she meant something more by them, she didn’t- _couldn’t_ let on. A few steps away, she stopped, turned on her heel, sent a _scourgify_ towards the mess. The dusty texture disappeared from Draco’s hands, Abraxas’ shirt a pristine white once more. 

“Boys,” she muttered under her breath “Always cleaning up their messes.”

Riddle’s expression was carefully blank, eyes switching back and forth between Abraxas and Hermione, his shoulders slumped slightly, almost in disappointment. “I’d hate to cut this get together short so soon, would you care for tea?” Slowly, he twined his fingers together, gave Cygnus a pointed look, spurring the man to stand and leave the room. 

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she stared down at Riddle, eyed the chair she’d been assigned. “No.” she kept her tone curt. “Abraxas still needs to go to the infirmary.”

Rodolphus nodded, cleared his throat. “Lady’s right, that wandwork won’t cut the salami in the long run, not if we want Abraxas in tip top shape for the hereafter.”

A wave of Riddle’s wand freed Abraxas, his half-healed arm hanging loose at his side. Draco had cut the tendons, taken away the ability to bend the limb at the elbow. “Lestrange, you can escort him” his gaze cut into Hermione. “I wouldn’t force you to be in Malfoy’s company after what he’s done.” 

Draco wanted to laugh at the choice of words. 

“Have a _seat,_ Hermione.” Riddle’s tone dropped into something more serious, not to be questioned.

Slowly, she complied, her posture far too straight. 

“Lestrange, take Malfoy to the infirmary; the sooner the better.” Riddle waved his wand, Draco’s chair dragging across the floor to join them. “We have sensitive subjects to discuss that don’t require your attendance.”

Cygnus reentered the room, a tray hovering behind him, keeping a decent distance between the tray and the two wizards off to the infirmary. The chipped tea cups clinked against one another, a noise far too innocuous and normal for the situation. 

He didn’t hear what Riddle was saying, discounting it as unimportant drivel. Cygnus floated cups and saucers around to set their places. Rosier joined them at the table. 

The situation was odd yet familiar. Reminiscent of the manor, when his mother would serve their most undesirable company with her best china and offer the finest herbal blends from countries no one could pronounce. Werewolves and dark wizards having conversations about murder and malice and world domination; all the while drinking tea from intricate glassware with floral designs. 

Both situations were redolent of the Mad Hatter’s very own tea party; both led by the same deranged man. Draco wondered if Hermione was the Alice in this story, wondered what that made him. 

Almost like she’d read his mind (she very well could have, if he gave her the chance), Hermione’s voice leached into his mind. **“I thought you were kidding about the tea parties.”**

 **“Why would I joke about such a thing?”** Draco didn’t look at Hermione lest they give themselves away somehow. 

He watched the drinks be served. Saw Hermione decline any sugar or honey. Draco couldn’t bring himself to listen to the conversation, too far inside his own head to think it important. Riddle was the first to drink, a pointed look to Hermione, watching her without saying anything until she took a sip of the brew. 

Everything devolved from there, forced polite conversation with dangerous undertones.

_‘How long have you known each other?’_

_‘Where did you two meet?’_

_‘How long do you think it will take Abraxas to recover?’_

_‘Funny, how easily he accepted the challenge. Do you think he’s done that before?’_

_‘Does it not bother you?’_

Before he knew it, their _tea party_ was over, Cygnus and Rosier apparating to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, leaving the three of them alone together. 

“It’s getting late, I can accompany you back to the castle, Hermione.”

“No,” she cut in, tone harsh. “I can manage on my own, thanks.”

Riddle raised his eyebrows, looked between them. “It’s dangerous for a girl to wander the forest alone at this hour-any hour, really. Have you any idea what’s out there?” he tilted his head, tone condescending. 

“Better than most, actually.” she snapped, pushing to her feet, gesturing for Draco to follow suit. “Now if you don’t mind,” she looped her arm with Draco’s. “We’ll be going.” they both saw the way Riddle’s mouth was poised for something else to say. _“Alone.”_

**08:17 P.M.**

“We’re keeping the spell in place. I don’t trust him, he’s planning something.”

Draco knew better than to argue. They picked around the fallen trees, having decided to take a shortcut through the forest. He suspected it was a form of rebellion, what with Riddle warning her not to do exactly what they were doing. 

“He had no right to make you do that.” she muttered, not even bothering to listen for a response. Draco found it was near impossible to get a word in when she was like this-he’d still try, though. “He’s sick in the head! And why the hell was I supposed to be there? What purpose did I serve? Am I supposed to be a witness?”

“Granger-”

“I mean, Abraxas was refusing. What if he never apologized? Would we still be there?” 

_“Granger!”_

She spun to look at him. “What?” 

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” he stated, voice low, truly apologetic.

Hermione only waved a hand. “He deserved far worse. Anyway, I think…”

She kept on about Riddle’s being a bastard and a son of a bitch and all kinds of creative expletives but Draco wasn’t really listening, her words washing over him in waves. _Did he somehow break Hermione Granger?_

Why was she just- okay with all of this? With him?

“...I would have done the same. I mean, no offense, but your family is completely fucked. What with the whole allegiance to the Dark Lord thing and the blood prejudice and all that other stuff. And the common room thing, well if I had my wand I’d have cursed off every appendage he’s got…”

He trailed behind her, the tirade of conjecture and insults falling on deaf ears as he fell into a stupor of confusion and disbelief. Was this the same witch he knew?

Was she a clone?

Rosier under the effects of a polyjuice potion?

“Malfoy!” 

He looked up, saw her looking at him.

“What?”

She sighed, stepped closer. “I was serious you know.”

“About?”

“Have you been listening _at all?_ I just said I don’t blame you. We’re playing a part here, you had to do it.”

“I would have done it even without Riddle’s involvement.” he muttered, brushing past. He didn’t want to have this conversation. She should hate him. _Would_ hate him. 

“I know.” she snapped, grabbing his arm to stop him. “You’ve said as much. While I don’t want to see that ever again-which I’m sure is just wishful thinking-I don’t think any different of you.”

“You should.” he replied, a harsh bite in his words. 

“Riddle’s started a war. I won’t hold it against you since neither of us had a choice to go against his wishes.” she caught sight of his expression, didn’t let him speak. “You of all people know how stubborn I am. Telling me what to think isn’t going to go anywhere.” she looked behind him, at the castle they were headed towards. “Can we just skip the argument where you insist I should hate you and call it a day? I’m too tired to do anything other than lock myself in the room and sleep.”

Her tone warned him she wouldn’t let him argue, so he only gave a slight nod. 

The thoughts didn’t stop, though.

**11:49 P.M.**

Around her was a dimly lit room, a plush mattress under her body. A shadow loomed over, dark eyes with pupils blown wide. Even without the light, she could tell. Her lips moved to form words, but couldn’t just yet, near petrified; in a trance-like state.

 _“Hush pet, I’m here.”_ said the shadow, his voice as dark as the room, seductive as night. 

A hand was on her shoulder, holding her in place, almost like the man knew what she was thinking. She tried squinting for details, but there weren’t many. Dark hair, darker eyes, a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, tendrils of smoke obscuring anything of real significance. His identity escaped her, but it didn’t seem to be something she should worry about. Something told her that it was fine, this was all fine. She didn’t need to know him, who he was, anything about him. _It’s not important-not important._

“What are you-”

_“It’s fine, no need to worry.”_

Almost against her will, Hermione’s worry and unease faded away, a sense of peace washing over her. She couldn’t bring herself to make sense of it. _It’s not important._ The words echoed around her mind, any real confusion disappearing as if she’d never bothered to think it in the first place. 

The shadow’s hand drifted from her shoulder to her collarbone, skating over her skin with a light tactility. _“You mustn’t worry... you want this.”_ she felt his touch move to the hollow of her throat, down her chest, between her breasts. Her eyes fluttered shut, the sensations lighting the nerves under her skin from her neck to her stomach.

 _You want this-want this._ _You want him. You want me. Give in-give in._

The touch went lower, lower, lower.

_“Do you trust me?”_

_Yes yes yes._

“No,” the word came quickly, subconsciously, her eyes snapping open. The shadow was closer now, his face almost discernable from the darkness of the room. Almost.

The light touch disappeared, replaced by something more sure, more insistent. _“You will.”_ the shadow whispered, his tone smug, knowing.

 _Trust him, trust me._ Her mind whispered the words, a repeated mantra low in her ears, becoming a hum of syllables rather than discernable sounds. Slowly, her eyes fluttered shut once more. _It’s not important, no need to worry-don’t worry._ The touch returned, drifting lower, lower, lower. 

The shadow’s touch skated across her stomach, drifted under her shirt. _“Do you want this?”_ Her entire body was on fire, an indescribable heat blooming behind her navel. It was a familiar feeling, one that she’d almost forgotten about. Anticipation for a touch, for a caress, for something _more._ Her nerves were burning, aching for something, _anything._

“Yes…” she whispered, tone quiet, almost-

 _“No need to be ashamed, Hermione. You_ do _want this. You want me.”_ the shadow whispered, tone betraying that he was already sure of what her answer would have been. She couldn’t bring herself to ask why; to question it, question him. _It’s not important-not important._

His touch drifted lower, caught on the waistband of her pajamas. She was frozen, from fear or apprehension, it was hard to tell. _You want this, you want me-want me._ The mantra hummed, a pleasing repetition under her skin; comforting enough that she didn’t think on it. 

_“Let me show you… this is what you need, Hermione.”_ the voice lulled her into a sense of peace, but her nerves were still alight, begging, itching for some kind of release. The heat behind her navel increased, moving lower, lower, lower. _Let me show you-show you._

Before she could try and press her thighs together, the shadow’s hands moved, trapping her in place, a knee keeping her legs apart. 

_“You want this, you_ need _this.”_ the shadow’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at once, loud and quiet all the same, joining seamlessly with the hum deep inside her mind. _“You only need to say the words.”_

She knew exactly what to say, but a stubborn shard of her thought process reminded her that this was wrong; something was off, something wasn’t right. This wasn’t right, it shouldn’t be happening, shouldn’t be so easily accepted.

_Say it-say it._

Instead of relenting, she lay quiet, frozen. Hermione didn’t want him to stop, but she wasn’t going to ask for him to keep going either. 

_Say it-say it._

The touch returned in all the wrong places, never where she wanted it, _needed it._ On her ribs, her collarbones, the juncture where her shoulders met her neck. _You need this-need this_ her mind hummed, begging, pleading. The voice wasn’t hers; it was his, growing more and more insistent in tone, pleading as much as she wanted to. 

_Let me-let me touch you… let me. Trust me-trust me._

Her eyes opened once more, the man’s face almost there; almost familiar, yet just as unrecognizable as before. Alarms went off deep in her subconscious, begging, pleading for something, be it to stop or push for more, for something, anything. The smoke was starting to clear, parting over the man’s face, but his name escaped her, still on the fringe of her mind. 

“Who are you?” she finally asked, though it felt wrong; like it was taboo or forbidden to ask such a thing. “Why are you here? Where’s-”

 _“You mustn’t think of him, not here. Not with me.”_ the shadow’s tone changed, dropped into something malicious, wicked. _“It’s just you and I here.”_

“But who _are_ you?” she pushed farther, the inquisitive side of her mind winning out over the depraved one. “Why are we here?” she eyed the room, saw that it was different yet similar to her own, almost identical aside from the layout being reversed. 

The shadow growled, a deep rumble of frustration deep in his chest. _“That’s not important. You know that-”_

“I need to go, I need to get out of… of here, of this-”

The shadow’s hands returned, pinning her in place. _“No. You belong here, with me, not with him, not with anyone else.”_ his tone grew softer, more gentle. _“Stay.”_

 _No one else-no one._ The mantra changed, warped into something dark, venomous. _Only me-only us. Stay._ The voice was more insistent, demanding as it wormed itself in deeper, pushing thoughts of protest to the outskirts of her consciousness. 

The air sent chills over her, pushing her to yearn for his touch, for an escape from the cold. His hands traced patterns into her skin, leaving heat in their path without her asking; she didn’t have to, somehow he just knew what she wanted, what she craved. 

_“Give in,”_ he whispered, lips close enough to her neck that she could feel the ghost of his breath. _“You want to.”_

 _You want to-want to. Give in-give in._ Her mind echoed his words, churned them into non-discernable noise, his thoughts inseparable from hers. _Not mine, ours-ours. We want the same things. Need the same, want the same._ His fingers dragged down her body, barely grazing the skin, a trail of flames in their wake. _Give in-give in. you want to-want to._

She tried moving, be it to escape or embrace his touch, she didn’t know, not really. It didn’t matter, she knew what she wanted- _needed._

“Okay,” She said in an exhale of breath, near-silent but it didn’t matter, not when the room was so still. He still heard.

 _“Good, very good.”_ the whispered praise soaked into her, drowning out any apprehension she’d felt before. _“Relax, it’s alright. I’m here…”_ his touch skimmed the hem of her shirt, skated across her skin once more. 

Lower

Lower

Lower

Her eyes fell shut, the touch closer and closer to where she needed-wanted it to be. 

But things felt wrong, off. There were too many unanswered questions, too many oddities to the situation at hand. 

The shadow’s touch was warm over her knickers, dragging across the fabric in slow strokes. Teasing, pulling a reaction. She resisted the urge to writhe under him, to beg for more, for something else. 

Too many questions, too many nonanswers. 

It pushed her to open her eyes. 

The shadow loomed overhead, jaw tense as he stared down at her. Across the room, she noticed a second figure; easily familiar. He stood against the wall, arms crossed with a foot kicked back to the drywall. She knew him well enough to know that he was hiding a smirk. She could see it in his eyes. 

“It’s time you wake up now, Granger.” he drawled in a bored tone, eyes crinkled at the corners like he wanted to laugh. “I don’t know how much more of this I can stomach.”

The shadow looked towards the third voice, jaw set. _“You mustn’t listen to him, Hermione. I’m the only one you need. The only one you want.”_

 _Trust me-trust me. Not him-never him, only me._ The mantra changed, grew insistent, worried. _Forget him-forget him._ It overlapped with everything else it’d said before, a painful pressure building at the top of her skull and emanating downward. The voice hardly sounded human now, a chaotic symphony of throaty syllables and _noise._

Quickly, it became too much, building, building, until _nothing._ The noise was gone, the weight of the shadow absent. 

Hermione’s eyes snapped open, and she didn’t remember the last time she’d closed them. 

Slowly, she realized it was a dream. 

Next to her, somewhere in the room, Draco’s breathing changed, the only proof he was awake. “About time.” He muttered, voice thick with sleep. 

It took her far too long to figure out what he was talking about. 

“Did you…” she closed her eyes, resisted the urge to run far far away, and obliviate herself. “See… that?” _Why even mention it?_

“See what?” he asked, talking to the ceiling. “Your sex dream about a shadow? _Definitely not.”_

Hermione dragged her hands over her face, wishing she could just disappear. “I’m going to drown myself,” she groaned. “and I’m still operating on the theory that I’m dead and this is _hell.”_

Draco didn’t say anything, but the sound of quiet laughter hit her ears.

“I’m dead. This is hell,” She muttered, pulling her pillow over her face. “If I suffocate, don’t revive me.”

“Dead or not, I prefer you abstain from your weird sex dreams while our minds are still connected.” He said, humor bleeding through a serious tone. 

“It’s my turn to sleep in the bathtub.”

“Escapism isn’t healthy, Granger.”

“Don’t turn my own words against me, Malfoy. Not when I’m contemplating putting myself out of this misery.” her voice was muffled through the pillow. “That dream didn’t even make sense-”

“It probably has something to do with your crush on Riddle.”

She sat up, stared at Draco. “I _do not_ have a crush on _him!”_

He only scoffed. “Granger, that was _definitely_ Riddle.”

“That’s-that’s absurd!”

“You’re not the first person to have a crush on Voldemort.” Draco laid an arm over his face. “I suppose I should be thankful he still has a nose.”

She shoved him, the movement far weaker than she would have liked it to be. “I don’t have a crush on the fucking _Dark Lord!”_

“The first step to forgiving yourself is acknowledging the problem.”

She let out a muffled shriek into her hands. “Stop talking like a self-help book! It’s not helping anything.” Hermione shook her head to right herself. “I don’t-I would _never_ have a dream about him-” she stopped, switched gears to try and distract herself. “Who the hell has a crush on Voldemort-sans nose?” 

“Bellatrix.” Her face twisted with disgust, plenty of things to ask already on her mind, but Draco kept talking after a moment. “No one’s ever accused her of being sane, though.”

Hermione straightened, stared down at him, a frown across her face. “How much of that-”

“All of it.” he said the words as if they pained him.

Her mouth fell open, plenty of things rushing to mind about what to say. “And you just _watched?”_ she didn’t feel bad about the shrieking noise she made towards the end there. “What the fuck!” she drew her legs up, sat cross legged on the bed. “What the-”

“What would you prefer I do Granger?” he didn’t move the arm over his face. “Not stop you at all? Voyeurism is not one of my- what’s it called? _Kinks.”_

“One would argue it would be cuckolding,” She stated, not truly thinking the statement through before it was out hanging in the air. Quickly, she clapped a hand over her mouth, but Draco didn’t seem to notice what she’d said. “Why did you let it go on that… long?” 

“I tried to wake you as soon as I noticed where I was. Something was keeping me from being able to interfere.” He yanked the blankets up to his chin with his free hand. “Assumed you didn’t _want_ to be interrupted.” Draco drew his arm away from his face to see her, eyes just as bright as ever in the dim room. “But I wasn’t going to watch that.”

Hermione stared at him a moment, trying for a decent response, but an inconsistency sprung to mind. “Neither of us can control that kind of thing when we’re unconscious. Otherwise, I would’ve been able to- well- in _your_ dream…” she tilted her head. “And if I was going to have a dream like that about anyone, it would be-” she snapped her mouth shut. “Well, it _wouldn’t_ be that- _him.”_

“It wasn’t you keeping me out?” 

“No.” she shook her head with the word. “So you tried-”

“Yes.”

“And I-” 

“Wouldn’t have a dream about shagging the Dark Lord?” 

“No! Gods no!” 

Draco made a humming noise, shrugged, feigning nonchalance to keep himself calm. “Must’ve been the tea, then.”

“What are you talking about?” she stared at him, waited for an answer that didn’t come right away. 

He sighed, a long suffering noise in the room. “Let’s just say you drank the kool-aid.” he caught sight of her expression. “He was adamant you be a part of his little tea party, did you think that it was because he wanted you to stay hydrated?” 

“No-but-” Hermione stopped, leaned back against the pillows. It was getting harder and harder to keep from jumping up to pace around the room. “Well- you let me drink it!” 

He frowned, shook his head. “Am I supposed to be able to predict his every move?” 

“No, but a bit of a heads up would have been nice. And we drank the same brew-”

“He served you, Granger. And if you expect me to be able to remember every little thing he’s ever done while living under the manor’s roof, you’re mad. You’d have to drop out of school to learn it all. It didn’t even cross my mind.” He gestured at nothing, barely a true movement. “It’s supposed to be me that he comes after; I wasn’t focused on what he could have been planning to do to you.” 

“This sucks.” she muttered. “I’m too mad to be disgusted right now.”

“I’m sure it’ll come later.” he paused. “Like Riddle.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

She shoved him, wanting to do worse. “You’re disgusting.”

He scoffed, even _smirked._ “You do realize this means he likes you.”

“And he’s jealous of you. I already knew that.” she snapped. “But this seems a bit much.”

“He’s always been _a bit much,_ Granger. You’re only finding this out now? He was obsessed with Potter for no real reason. Sane people don’t make it their life’s work to thwart an eleven year old’s existence. His eyes are on you now.”

She made a noise deep in her throat. “That doesn’t mean I have to be okay with it. He’s not going to stop this.” 

“No.” he agreed. “But it’s not like we can kill him without immeasurable consequence.”

She sat up on her elbows to look at him. “Would you? Kill him?” 

“Are you going to lose your mind if I say yes?” he asked, tone teasing yet mixed with something else.

She scoffed. “I had to watch you torture your own grandfather and I didn’t feel a hint of guilt. As much as that should bother me, it doesn’t. So no, I don’t think I’d lose my mind.” the sight of Abraxas’ blood on Draco’s hands, the screams-they hadn’t affected her nearly as much as was morally accepted. 

“Then yes.” Draco stated. “Without hesitation.”

Hermione nodded, laid back against the pillows. “I would too. Not even because he’s Voldemort, but because he’s an insufferable bastard. And he just-did _that.”_

Draco shook his head but he was smiling-it was barely there but just enough to show in the dim light. “I _am_ a bad influence on you.”

“Shut up.” she muttered. “We’re stuck in the ‘40’s, now’s not the time for morality.” 

“You’re only proving my point.” he teased, neither speaking for a moment. “So who _would_ it be?” the corners of his eyes crinkled, a surefire sign he was going to try and rile her. “I remember you having a crush on Lockhart-would it be him?” 

“Okay, one- _gross._ Two, I don’t have to tell you that-”

“Weasley?”

She smacked him, thought about throwing a _bombarda_ at the window to the black lake in order to drown them both. “No!” she didn’t even bother attempting to unravel the mess of the timeline where she’d suddenly gotten over her _thing_ with Ron, her attentions turning to someone else. Someone dangerous. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“If you insist on keeping this _spell_ in place, I’d say you could give me some warning as to what I might witness.” there was something hidden behind his tone. “Krum?”

“No.” She turned on her side, away from him lest he see her blush. “I don’t hear you confessing your deepest darkest secrets, so I’ll keep mine to myself.” 

As she laid there, she prayed to any god that would listen that Draco Malfoy wouldn’t be privy to any more of her _dreams,_ because while she hadn’t had a dream of that nature in a long _long_ time, she knew exactly who it would feature should she have another. 

The realization, like the torture, didn’t bother her nearly as much as it should have. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this constitute a tag for shadow sex? I’m afraid to check and see if that’s a thing.  
> because it probably is, it's ao3. 
> 
> my Twitter and TikTok handles are both @3ft7ft77in if y'all wanna check that out.  
> my TikTok has content for this fic (visuals, that kinda stuff) and Twitter's been handy for my Dramione meltdowns lately
> 
> [Chapter word count: 9,400]


	13. Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So what, you’re just going to be vague and float away?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter word count: 7,400]

_10/2/44_

_Diary,_

_I am conflicted. He’s aristocratic and eloquent. From what I have seen, he is sharp-minded and the exact opposite of the few followers I have. He would be a valuable asset to the cause, to my plans. He is dangerous and sly; a true Slytherin -had he been inducted into the school. But he is also a danger to Hermione._

_I had hoped to help her see the darkness inside of her companion, but she continues to forget herself when it comes to him. He will need to be taken care of._

_For now, I can learn from him. It will not take long. I tend to adapt quite quickly. She fancies him over me, I need to know why. Then Hermione can be rid of him._

_Her subconscious is stronger than I thought; what with him showing up and ruining everything. She shouldn’t have been able to resist so soon. By the time I am done, she won’t want to. _

_Abraxas is still in the infirmary, Dumbledore knew better than to ask questions. The old bat. He’s the one who brought me here, you’d think he’d have_ _some_ _faith in me._

_T.R._

_10/3/44_

_Diary,_

_She initiated a conversation by asking the date. It’s October third._

_Things are going well._

_Tomorrow, the others will get their assignments. Abraxas is still useless as ever. That wizard of hers might have permanently marred the man. I don’t know if I should be cross or impressed._

_She spent a decent amount of time in the library with that wretched familiar. No one else in this school keeps their animal so close. The vermin is a weakness. The last attempt involving the creature backfired, but I have half a mind to try again. I would have to do the work this time, as Rosier failed exponentially, and the others are useless._

_T.R._

* * *

**_Monday, October 2nd, 1944_ **

Things between them were off. Again. 

He planned to avoid her as much as he humanly could. 

Hermione didn’t believe he would hurt her, but even Draco didn’t know that. He’d been the cause of her pain on two separate occasions now; neither instance on purpose, but they still stemmed from him. He’d practically traumatized her the day before, and he wondered if that constituted a third. Her ease in ignoring what he’d done bothered him. She said it was fine, that he did what he needed to do. But conversation between them was stilted to avoid the elephant in the room. Neither were going to forget what had happened. 

Draco didn’t know what was worse; the fact that he half believed her being _okay_ with his penchant for making a mess of people or the fact that she somehow still trusted him. Part of him wanted to run, the more sensible part of him wanted to throttle the witch to try and knock some sense into her because it seemed that her Gryffindor instincts were far stronger than he’d originally thought. 

She should be afraid. 

The things he’d done gave him nightmares; not because of what he did, but because he _liked_ it. He was disgusted. With himself, with Riddle, with everything. If she hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t bother to feel like this. 

She had watched him tear Abraxas apart, saw him stain his hands with blood and then acted as if nothing had happened. He worried for her, partially due to the events of the day prior and for the business with Riddle. -The invasion into her mind. 

Really, Draco had done the same thing- sure, he never snuck into her dreams to try and-

Well it made him question if he and Riddle were cut from the same cloth afterall. While he’d never take advantage of her that way, he’d thought about her _in_ _that way_ more than once, more than was healthy. He didn’t deserve her, would never deserve her. He was insane for even thinking about it. 

He was only being realistic. 

Thinking and doing were two different things, and he was more wary of the bond than before. He never thought he’d be afraid of having a _dream_ before. Not that he had many that were of the _risqu_ _é_ nature-no that wasn’t his style; his dreams were always horrible-complete with blood and resounding screams. Nightmares, more like. 

Thinking about it all made him want to drown himself in the bathtub. Or maybe just sleep there for a week, that’d work just as well. He needed distance from Hermione and her-

He didn’t even want to think it. 

_Sex dreams-_

About Tom Riddle.

If anything would, it was _that_ that hurt his _little pureblood ears._ She said it wasn’t her doing. And he partially believed her. Only partially. Because while she didn’t _like_ Riddle, she tolerated him. She was actively planning on stealing his attentions, dragging the spotlight from Draco to herself, and that was an idiotic idea all on its own. -But it also meant she cared about him-Draco-which yeah, it made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, but it also made him wonder for her sanity. Before landing themselves in 1944, they hated each other. He tormented her, made her cry, and was part of the movement trying to eradicate witches like her. He’d done nothing to change her mind about him; hell, he’d only done things to make it clearer that he was a terrible person. He’d just attempted-well _had_ drawn and quartered his own grandfather. In a way. Not _all the way,_ but close enough. 

The entire situation was awful; almost a waking nightmare. His other theory on the matter didn’t make much sense- that he’d been captured and shipped off to some unplottable location and this was all part of some American CIA experiment. The thought had occurred to him more than once; that none of this was real and he was tied up in some blacksite with a year’s worth of LSD in his system. An overdose on psychedelics would put him in a coma; give him hypothermia… he _was_ cold all the gods-damned time. Maybe Hermione had been dosed as well and they were wandering about in their own time drugged out of their minds making fools of themselves in a padded cell-or gods forbid- _a public area._

But no, that didn’t make much sense. The logistics were off, and as erratic as the witch was in the beginning, she seemed to have calmed down a bit. Purely because she’d stopped having a hysterical episode every three days. -which was a good thing, as Draco’s own sanity had been waning after witnessing her in such a state of disaster. Two weeks into their stay in 1944, he decided that neither of them seemed to be high on psychedelics. -But he wouldn’t put the idea past the government, the bastards. 

Instead of having one of her _episodes,_ Hermione was adamant on pretending nothing was wrong, that everything was just fine and dandy. That she hadn’t watched him tear a man to pieces and then partake in tea like it was a normal day-it had been, in another time. It was like she hadn’t witnessed it at all; like they hadn’t been involved in Riddle’s little _test._ But Draco knew better; knew that she was only afraid to ask the question he was afraid to answer. 

He didn’t know what was worse, pretending it didn’t happen or the fact that he wanted to talk about it. Gods- _disgusting._ Draco was never one for the mushy heart to heart bullshit that found him; it made him uncomfortable, made him feel smothered. 

But really, an explanation would do him no good. She’d never understand what made him the way he was. Why he was so warped, why he didn’t think twice about inflicting pain. She acted as if she was safe around him; but even he wasn’t sure. Twice (maybe three times) he’d hurt her without even trying, who’s to say it wouldn’t happen again? 

It wasn’t Draco, that’s for sure. 

He’d gotten ready without a word; which just meant pulling at the animagus spell and waiting for Hermione to be done with whatever it was she did in the mornings-he didn’t know, didn’t really care. She tried talking to him but didn’t get far on that endeavor, the conversation too careful to actually get anywhere. He was too preoccupied with plotting Riddle’s demise while occluded to all hell. Angry was an understatement for what he was feeling. Hermione wasn’t his, no- but she wasn’t Riddle’s, either. 

It was Tom Riddle’s fault he became a monster, and it was Tom Riddle’s fault Hermione had seen him that way. It could have been his fault, but only partially. Voldemort was at the root of all this; so that’s who he focused his anger on. 

Even though he couldn’t do anything about it. 

Not yet, anyway. 

At breakfast, things seemed normal; Riddle pretended nothing was amiss, acted as if he hadn’t had some strange wizard torture one of his ‘friends’ for harming a witch he’d barely known a month, and Allison and Elizabeth rattled off the events of their weekend out on the town. Rosier watched from a distance; always staring at Draco, and he hated the attention. 

Hermione sat next to Allison, avoided Riddle’s eyes but conversed with him when he asked a question or mentioned something asinine like the weather.

_The weather._

She thought she was being sneaky with her subtle niceties, the way she put up with Riddle’s attempts at conversation. Draco could tell that she thought she was being successful. But Hermione Granger happens to be a terrible actor when her nerves are frayed. If you know what to look for, that is.

Breakfast at the Slytherin table after an _eventful_ weekend was no exception. 

Watching it all unfold in real-time, Draco wanted to off himself, maybe visit the Astronomy tower for some quality alone time. 

Not _that_ kind of alone time. 

He’d already been there, already done that. Hermione yelled at him about using all the hot water like they weren’t living in a magical castle with charmed plumbing. But he needed time to think and do other things that were considered uncouth to speak about. Men have needs, especially when in danger of suddenly finding oneself in some fucked up fantasy dream world with a Voldemort-shaped shadow and his _roommate._ It was better he got it out of the way before the power of suggestion took over and sent him into some wet dream about Hermione while their minds were connected. 

Because that would be weird. 

And if _that_ was ever going to happen, he wanted to be awake. Even though that was only wishful thinking on his part. She was Hermione Granger, golden girl and he was Draco Malfoy, a stain on wizard society. 

Listening to their sad excuses of conversation had him rethinking the plan to drown himself. That’s how bad it was. It was mundane, almost reminiscent of his _real_ days at school and he hated it. They had bigger problems than Slughorn’s test on Friday and Beery’s essays. The Dark Lord was trying to build an army and he had his eyes on Hermione for the front lines-and his bed, apparently. It only fueled Draco’s anger, that reminder. Every time Riddle’s unblinking eyes landed on Hermione, any time he paused in the hallways to walk with her and Allison to the next class. 

Voldemort did everything for a reason; he’d brought Hermione to the shack to prove a point, be it that Draco was a monster or something else. Draco suspected it was something to do with causing a rift between them, and while Hermione insisted that wasn’t what happened, he knew better. She still spoke to him the same way, still slapped him when he said something slightly vulgar, but that doubt was back in her eyes. Not that it ever truly left. 

Any time the bastard showed his face, Draco’s mind went to a dark and scary place-where he happened to thrive. He knew exactly how the Dark Lord operated. Riddle was nothing if not predictable once you learned his quirks, lived in the same house; once you’ve been forced to do his bidding. The reminders weren’t needed, but they helped keep Draco on the course for revenge. Riddle shouldn’t have tried getting to Hermione by way of her dreams, where she was supposed to be safe. 

With both Draco and Riddle in her head, she’d never sleep soundly again; between the weird shadow façade and Draco’s bouts of self-loathing. 

Part of him wondered if it was stupid, if he should test the Dark Lord like he wanted to-planned to, but Riddle was only a boy. He hadn’t seen true violence yet. So far, he’d had a giant snake do his bidding-which wasn’t all that different from his future self with Nagini. Again, _predictable._ Draco never had an underling to do his bidding, serpentine or not; it’d always been him to get his hands bloody. It was probably some kind of superiority complex that came from his only-child status that fueled the realization but it was helpful all the same. 

He was just as dark and twisted -maybe even worse than the Dark Lord- at this point in life. Instead of the information making him sick, it spurred Draco onward in his apparent quest for revenge. It’s not like he had a reason to feel guilt over his fixation on retribution for something that hadn’t even happened yet; this was a man that would go on to cause thousands of lives to end, a man that would start a war. It was well deserved. Even if Riddle hadn’t corrupted Hermione just yet. 

Though Riddle’s thinking it was possible to turn her was reason enough. 

-On top of his apparent- for lack of a better word, _infatuation._

The fixation on Hermione was unfounded; only based on what she was capable of late at night in a girl’s bathroom. The man didn’t even know her-not like Draco did. But that’s what scared him most; if Riddle wanted someone in his ranks, he’d get them. Draco hadn’t wanted anything to do with the Death Eater regime, he thought it too brazen to align with someone so adamant on things going their way, yet he’d still been dragged into the circle. Slytherin as it may sound, Draco wasn’t a fan of picking sides, not when one could lose so exponentially. He played both sides; preferred it. 

The Dark Lord had forced his hand, made him join up and forgo his beliefs about always having an out, some kind of escape. 

And look where that got him. 

**01:03 P.M.**

Like many things in his life, Draco had a love-hate relationship with his status as a Familiar. 

No one noticed him, which was fine-great, even-but it also meant having to follow Hermione around the school all the while avoiding being stepped on. It was grueling work, standing at barely over a foot tall while surrounded by clumsy teenagers. If he hadn’t been a seeker for his golden years of school, he’d have broken hands-or paws. Or something. The astronomy tower was looking more and more enticing as the days dragged on. Dramatic, yes, but he didn’t care much about how theatrical he happened to be acting. It was horrible. 

He was forced to act as an animal on the daily, barred from day-to-day conversation and human interaction beyond growling and making an odd hissing noise at the first years when their sticky fingers came too close to his coat. _He had a coat._ -And ears that were far too reactive for his taste. 

Okay so maybe he hated it. -He had a tail, and a nose that was far too sensitive, and the third years refused to discover what deodorant was. The few that did happen to know of the elusive cosmetic’s existence used far too much and smelled like his mother’s perfume cabinet. Which was a terrible thing. 

Just terrible. 

He didn’t even remember brewing the potion or practicing the animagus spell-and that was a long ordeal if he remembered correctly. What with the ingredients and the adjustment period he had to have gone through at some point. _That_ was almost more suspicious than going back fifty years in the past. He should have remembered going through with such a thing. 

He chose to briefly entertain the thought of staying locked in the room for the rest of the day; away from the insufferable preteens the school housed. He quickly nixed the idea. If he tried keeping to the room, Hermione would stay as well, seeing as she had some kind of issue with codependency-he wasn’t a psychiatrist, but the signs were there. Probably the long-term effects of having to babysit the two idiots she called her friends for seven years. 

If he had to guess. 

But he wasn’t guessing. Nor complaining. Because he’d keep taking what he could get, even if his feelings for the witch were unfounded. It’d only been a month and he was considering picking a fight with the Dark Lord on Hermione’s behalf. It didn’t make much sense, but nothing ever did in Draco’s life. What with the whole ‘I’m an evil dictator with thousands of minions but I’m going to send a sixteen-year-old to kill a powerful wizard’ thing that went down. 

He dealt nonsense in spades. _Feelings_ were the least of his worries; annoying as they may be. 

He would suffer through the rest of the day’s classes for her sake, but he wasn’t going to be happy about it. 

Walking through the door of Kettleburn’s class was like déjà vu. Or going back in time, but that particular play on words didn’t make much sense in this situation. 

An antique cabinet stood at the front of the room, the desks pushed aside to accommodate the day’s group of students, and a large gramophone sat off to the side, beaten and rusted. The chattering blended into the crackling show tunes and Draco realized the only thing missing was a scar-faced werewolf. What they had instead was Kettleburn; whose face was fairly mauled from his work with the magical creatures he loved so much, but there was a certain air of lycanthropy missing from the man. 

“We’ll be learning how to deal with boggarts today; if you all form a line we’ll get started.” came the professor’s voice. “Come on, we don’t have all day now!” 

Silvanus Kettleburn was a familiar presence-after getting past the fact that the man still had all of his limbs. It was odd, having the Care of Magical Creatures professor teaching them about the creatures when they’d learned about in Lupin’s Defense class first. But Draco couldn’t even remember who the hell was even teaching Defence in 1944. If he really thought about it, he’d realize that there was no Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum to even attend. It was a blank slot in time. But he didn’t think about such things, he was too preoccupied. But if he had, then he’d start theorizing about the government’s mind control programs again. The bastards. 

Draco didn’t have to look at Hermione to see that she was nervous about what form the boggart would take. If memory served, her fear before everything went to shit was a bad grade; now it was god knows what. Surely after living through a war it was something else. Probably something to do with death and pain, maybe Bellatrix. From her nightmares, it was probably Bellatrix. He knew her. 

Seeing the smug look on Riddle’s face threatened to send Draco into a tailspin of anger and bloodlust but he focused on the room, watched the way Hermione gravitated towards the back of the line, almost as if she hoped the hour would run out before her fear was revealed. He kept to the walls, away from most other students. 

Of all the days for such an exercise, this had to be the worst one. 

Part of Draco wondered if he’d see himself covered in blood twirling a knife between his fingers-surely that would be irrefutable proof that she was scared of him, that she had lied. He didn’t want to be one of Hermione’s greatest fears, but he was nothing if not prepared for everything. 

Riddle took the spot just behind Hermione, almost as if he wanted a front-row seat to her fears; as if he’d see something he could hold over her head. Depending on what form the boggart decided upon, he might. 

**“If you have a conniption in front of everyone, you’ll be the laughing stock of the school.”**

Her face twitched, like she wanted to smile or grimace. **“I don’t need the reminder. Now shut up before I throw something at you.”** her tone was sharp, curt through the bond and he knew that if she could, she probably would. 

**“That would be misconstrued as animal abuse.”**

**“I’d deal with the allegations if it shut you up.”** she kept her face carefully blank as she pretended to be interested in Kettleburn’s explanation of the spell. **“I’m serious, I can’t deal with your commentary on top of everything else.”**

**“This morning you were trying to talk my ear off about your potions assignment, I’m only returning the favor.”**

**“I’m going to hex you.”**

He stopped pulling at the bond only because he knew that he’d give himself away somehow. It was always fun, riling her up. His only entertainment in class, if he was honest. It’s not like he paid much attention to the courses he’d already sat through once-albeit sleep deprived and stressed out of his mind, but it’s not like the curriculum was that complicated. 

The music grew louder, and he watched the boggart’s dusty form emerge, morphing and twisting into the typical nightmare fuel. Most students had similar fears to what he’d seen in Lupin’s class; spiders, snakes, all the other creepy crawlies. Elizabeth seemed to be afraid of being married off to a man, her boggart taking the form of a ‘perfect husband’ complete with a goblin wrought wedding ring. Allison was afraid of clowns. Cygnus seemed to have an aversion to blood; which was almost funny, considering the company he favored. 

When Rosier stepped up to the front of the line, Draco expected it. The situation wouldn’t be ideal, what with Riddle having _seen_ Draco and it would make him wonder why Hermione’s ‘Hogsmeade wizard’ was one of Rosier’s greatest fears, but the boggart didn’t really resemble Draco so much as share characteristics. It _was_ Draco, there was no doubt about that, but you couldn’t tell unless you had all the pieces to the puzzle. Hermione watched with some kind of interest as the boggart stood stationary, blood dripping from its clothes -pooling on the floor, a dark flowing cloak with the hood up. Silver eyes shining in the shadows. A letter opener glowing red and orange rolling between his fingers, like they itched. 

While it didn’t capture Draco’s exact likeness, it presented the things that were most terrifying about him. The way he was always calm, the ease in which he bloodied himself for the sake of dramatics, his eyes-always emotionless when at work tearing people apart. Draco’s likeness didn’t look half bad, if he was honest. 

Evan Rosier looked positively terrified at the revelation of his greatest fear. 

**“You look too smug.”**

Draco glanced over to Hermione, his features schooled. An animal’s face trying to convey human emotions didn’t translate very well. **“I’ve no idea what you mean Granger.”**

 **“You know** **_exactly_ ** **what I mean, Malfoy. If he didn't have a decent imagination, we’d be screwed.”** she kept from looking at him, but he could see her expression. 

**“I don’t know how I can look** **_smug.”_ ** he retorted, sensing her eyes on him. **“Foxes don’t exactly have a varied range of emotions.”**

**“You always look smug, just more so than usual.”**

**“I remember you saying I was too much to deal with not ten minutes ago, what’s changed?”**

**“Shut up.”**

He did, only because he was more interested in what his likeness would turn into _after_ the riddikulus spell. 

Hermione gave Rosier far too much credit, as the ‘imagined’ part of the spell didn’t yield much, only warping his likeness into a bright pink cloak, the blood fading to a bright blue _goo,_ and the letter opener morphed into a stick with a star and ribbons on the end. He expected a bit more if he was being honest. 

Rosier stepped aside, avoiding everyone’s gaze, and then it was more snakes, more spiders, more creepy crawlies. Other things Draco didn’t understand to be truly terrifying, but then again, he wasn’t afraid of much, not anymore.

When it came time for Hermione’s turn, she looked green. Draco watched the boggart become a whirlwind of brown and grey before materializing into a mirror. 

It seemed normal on all accounts. An antique gold frame with aged glass, standing six or so feet tall. 

It was the mirror’s image that was off; abnormal in more than one way. The _reflection_ was what the boggart wanted to use as a fear. Hermione stood behind the glass; moving around, waving and grinning madly, her hair a halo of riotous curls that seemed to defy gravity. A crooked wand hung loose in her grasp. She wore a burgundy ball gown that was much too extravagant for any occasion. It looked more stained than anything; blood a deep shade of crimson dripping from the ragged hem to the floor. 

Hermione’s fear was more complex than a mere dislike for something. 

The fear was borne of true deliberation, true inner turmoil. Hermione was afraid of becoming Bellatrix Lestrange. She’d told him as much on more than one occasion, but Draco didn’t think it was to this extent. Hermione was completely _terrified_ of becoming like his aunt; _like him._ It was both comforting and disconcerting- because he _was_ like his aunt. He’d obviously inherited her crazed bloodthirst. But if Hermione maintained her ‘good girl’ status then there’d be no problems down the road. 

But Riddle was actively trying to offset that reputation. 

If Hermione joined ranks, even as a double agent, she’d hate herself for it. She’d never be able to go back. In order to blend in, to assimilate into Riddle’s ragtag group, she’d need to prove herself, she’d have to hurt people. Innocent people. If she went along with her idiotic plan, that is. 

She was frozen to the spot, more curious than terrified of the boggart’s conjuring and Draco had to put an end to it, had to do something because she was on the verge of flipping her lid. Even with some kind of rift between them, he still knew her far too well. 

Riddle was watching with some thinly veiled curiosity and Draco itched to do something about it but knew better. It wasn’t like he could attack him. Not in broad daylight in a classroom full of witnesses. 

**_“Granger._ ** **You can’t just stand there and gawk like this is some potions experiment.”**

Nothing, no reaction, but it seemed to jolt something in the boggart; the mirror shifting and fading until two figures stood inside. 

One in a deep red ballgown, the other in a well-tailored suit, just as tattered as the dress. 

As the mirror’s image became less hazy, he found himself staring at the glass the same as Hermione. It was Draco, that much was clear; even with his chest shredded with some kind of shrapnel, pallor grey and sickly, clothes stained black with blood. He saw Hermione’s reflection shift, the glint of a blade in her grasp-he knew exactly which one, even if Hermione didn’t seem to. 

As much as he wanted to know what was going to happen, he also knew that Riddle would use this any way he could, and Hermione looked to be on the verge of fainting. Or worse. _Rambling._

Not knowing what else he could do, Draco crossed the room and stepped in front of the boggart- it was déjà vu central if he cared to think about it. The creature took a long moment to materialize into his greatest fear, but it came along soon enough. The mirror’s frame stayed, but the image inside changed. No one seemed to notice the boggart reacting to an animal -not even Kettleburn, who’d kept a close eye on Draco ever since the first meeting about Hermione’s ‘Familiar’. 

Deep down he knew what form it would take, knew that his feelings for the witch ran deeper than he’d ever admit, but seeing proof was different. In short; he was fucked. 

Fucked.

She almost didn’t notice why the mirror’s image changed once more, what it meant. Whose fear it was conveying. Why it’d changed. It was only after she’d seen Draco’s boggart that she cast the spell, turning the mirror into a painting of David Bowie-complete with leather pants (which was arguably more terrifying). It wouldn’t make sense to anyone from this time period, but she didn’t really care; she didn’t imagine it-the boggart chose it. Or the spell did. Either way, it wasn’t her problem. She told him as much in some semblance of showing control over herself, but it didn’t seem to help her calm down. 

Kettleburn hustled them aside and she was clearly itching to talk to him, to ask about what the boggart had shown them. _-Shown her._ He could tell by the look on her face that she was both curious and confused. 

Draco didn’t give her the chance to interrogate him, his eyes pointedly trained on the boggart’s next _victim,_ a slight nod towards the man. 

Riddle.

Hermione’s shoulders seemed to sag with acceptance, watching the creature with veiled curiosity. Compartmentalizing seemed to be something she did well. 

After a particularly long deliberation on the boggart’s side of things, the dusty edges of the creature twisted into dark flowing robes and a gaunt face. Almost a dementor. _Almost._ But not quite. The boggart had morphed into a reaper, complete with a black cloak and scythe. He half expected the thing to just stay in the amalgamation phase forever. It was odd, realizing the man was actually afraid of something; no matter how self-serving it was. 

Voldemort feared death. 

It was useless information because deep down they already knew that. No one would go through the process of splitting their soul seven times if they weren’t completely terrified of death. The fixation on surviving any situation showed what he truly feared _long_ before the boggart did. 

Forced to sit through the rest of the class, Draco realized that warm and fuzzy feeling was back; and he resisted the urge to run far, far away. It was depraved and fucked up, but the second thing the boggart had shown was him. _Dead._ On some level, that meant she cared. 

It was probably on behalf of some form of self-preservation instinct, but if she was afraid of him being dead, she had to care on some level. He didn’t plan on bringing it up any time soon, because he could be wrong. The break from the dark and twisty place his mind had been in was welcome, even if it introduced a plethora of bigger problems. 

He could deal with those later. 

**04:17 P.M.**

They continued to walk on eggshells around each other. 

Distance wasn’t an option, nor a good idea. Hermione was half afraid that if they did happen to come to some kind of agreement over a temporary separation, it’d become permanent. She wanted him around for some fucked up self-serving reason she’d never be able to explain without sounding like she belonged in a St. Mungo’s ward with Neville’s parents. 

If she hadn’t been living with him for the past month, she would have hated him. She would have been disgusted, but it was hard to ignore everything she knew about him outside of his extracurriculars. Draco was a drama queen if he really wanted to be, and guilt was a regular occurrence in his life. He hated meatloaf as much as she did, and _loved_ conspiracy theories as much as she hated them. He stopped her from completely losing it, and talked her down from the ledge on more than one occasion. She trusted him. 

Cold as he may be at times, he wasn’t a complete psycho. _Gods, if Harry and Ron could hear her now-_

She was worried about him, purely because Riddle had pulled his little stunt in the shack. It was irrefutable proof that he was, on some level, interested in Draco’s _talents._ She was more worried about Draco’s problems than her own, which, arguably, weren’t that bad. 

In another time, she might have been more put off by someone dosing her with a dream walking potion, but that just happened to coincide with her plan to earn some kind of rapport with the Dark Lord. It was more Slytherin than Gryffindor, exploiting such a thing, but she didn’t really mind. Fire with fire and all that racket. Maybe Draco really _was_ a bad influence. 

If she was honest with herself, Draco Malfoy _was_ a bad influence. He was a far cry from anyone else she knew-loathe to fit in with any of them. But that didn’t seem to deter her; if anything, it made her want to keep him. For completely selfish reasons, of course. 

But he was a broody little shit when he wanted to be, and Draco refused to believe that she couldn’t care less that he’d kind of sort of maybe filleted his grandfather. Which sounded bad, but a twisted part of her wanted worse for the man after what he’d done. 

She didn’t want Draco to think she was afraid of him, or that he’d lost her trust or any of that other garbage. Frankly, she was just worried about him. She’d seen him pale and haggard in their sixth year; she didn’t want a repeat. Even if that was probably a long way off, seeing as he was different now. Sure, he was still a ponce with a flair for the dramatics, but he was hardened by war and forced to weather through far worse. They both had. 

As classes dragged on, he ignored any attempts she made at conversation, slinking against the walls and glaring a bit harder at the younger students. But he couldn’t keep doing that-avoiding her, that is- not if she had anything to say about it. And she did. Plenty, actually. But she had more pressing questions. He’d been able to avoid her questions while sitting through her other classes. But as soon as their door was locked and warded and silenced and everything else, she rounded on him. 

“Are you going to lock yourself in the loo again?” 

“Is that not allowed anymore?” Draco paused mid-step on his way to the ensuite, turning part way to look at her. He kept his tone dry, almost like it used to be when speaking to her-missing the guarded tone he’d taken on so often. 

Her real question temporarily forgotten, Hermione wanted to strangle him. “Would it kill you to be normal?” 

“Yes.” 

She hurled a pillow at him. “Stop running away.”

“I _can’t_ run away Granger, we’re in a ten by twelve room.”

“Locking yourself in a washroom, running away; same thing.”

The look she received told her that she was about to be on the receiving end of an argument about semantics- or he was about to bolt; so she used her wand to shut the door. Which earned her a glare. “What if I needed the loo?” 

“What if _I_ did?” 

“You don’t.”

“Neither do you.” she retorted, shucking off her shoes and sitting down on the bed. “So stop wallowing; it’s annoying.”

“Apologies, _your highness.”_

Hermione threw the other pillow at him. “Seriously?” she asked, watching him catch the pillow and throw it back to the headboard. “Can’t we just go back to normal?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t seem to have a real answer so he just crossed his arms. It was like he hoped to win the argument by way of staring. They both knew why, but she preferred not to speak of it; she’d been thinking enough on the subject, thanks. 

“You’re the one making it weird.”

Draco scoffed and sat down in the wooden desk chair after thinking through his options. It was like he knew there’d be no way in hell she’d let him escape that easily. “Fine. I surrender.”

“You just made it weirder, if that was possible.” she said after a lapse of silence. 

He rolled his eyes and leaned back in the chair like the situation was painful for him. “I don’t know what you want.”

“I want things to go back to the way they were.”

“And you think we can do that? You think I can ignore the fact that you’ve been inside one of my worst nightmares and figured out what I’m capable of?” 

“Yes.” she grit out. “If you quit bringing it up.” 

“I don’t bring it up.”

“You just did.”

Another eye roll from the prince of dramatics. “Fine.”

“Good.”

_“Good.”_

Another lapse of silence overtook them and Hermione wanted to scream because they were no better off than when they started. “It’s still weird.”

“It is.” 

“This is stupid.” 

Draco nodded but said nothing.

“Your boggart-”

“You said to stop bringing things up.”

“Well now I’ve changed my mind.” Hermione retorted. “I want to know why _that_ was your boggart.” 

A scoff from Draco and if it were possible, Hermione was sure he’d have melted into the wall by now. “So do I.”

“Well do you think it’s a recent development or something to do with the memory loss? I mean it’s kind of weird that your worst fear is me dead.” Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, seeing the way his shoulders tensed at the reminder. The boggart had shown Hermione’s bloodied form sitting in a chair with lifeless eyes; mouth hanging open in a silent scream. “I wouldn’t have expected it.”

“I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know or you won’t tell me?” 

“Both.” 

“You’re being childish.” 

“You’re being nosy.” 

Hermione wanted to smack him. “Is it one of your life goals to make my life hell?” 

_“Definitely.”_ he leered, tone guarded and teasing all the same. He’d long mastered the art of being aloof when he wanted to be. 

“Why can’t you just talk to me about it?” 

He looked away and back, a torn expression on his face but Hermione couldn’t tell why, or what he was thinking. He wasn’t transparent, he was impossible to read if he wanted to be. She almost missed Ron’s demeanor-far too easy to read with the emotional range of a teaspoon. “I’d rather not.” 

“Too bad.” she knew it sounded like a scolding but it wasn’t-not really. 

He gave a half heated glare and shook his head. “I’m not doing this, not now, Granger. You don’t always get what you want.”

“Soon then.” she muttered, giving him a pointed look. 

He didn’t give an answer, and she didn’t immediately pry for one. She’d break him eventually. He tended to warm up and talk more if she started bothering him with inane questions and bad jokes. It was her go to when dealing with him.

“Do you want to play cards?”

“Why? So you can be a sore loser when I win?” 

“You won’t.” she told him, hands moving to her bag. “But you can try.” 

“Keep dreaming, Granger.”

* * *

**_Tuesday, October 3rd, 1944_ **

**06:12 P.M.**

She was standing three feet above the floor, as ghosts do, and Hermione didn’t pay the Grey Lady any mind. Draco was holed up in an alcove in the library and she was on her way back after a trip to the front desk for more parchment. 

“What? Not even a hello?”

Hermione paused, turned to look at the woman. She didn’t remember the ghost ever being able to speak. “I’m sorry…?”

The ghost waved a hand, drifted closer. “I did wonder when I’d show up here.” she gave a disappointed look. “It’s almost like you’ve been keeping me away on purpose.” she tapped her temple. “Ring any bells in that oversized brain of yours?”

“Are you supposed to?” Hermione asked, watching the woman dig through a pocket, only for her hands to come up empty. “I don’t-”

“Well if you don’t know, I can’t tell you.” the woman interrupted. “Honest.” she pinched the fabrics of her skirts and held them out as if inspecting something. “I must say, I don’t know how upset I should be that you’ve actually imagined me in these rags.” she scoffed, dropped the skirts like they offended her. “Hardly my style.”

“And what is?” Hermione pressed, wondering if this was going to be like the conversation with Sir Nicholas. 

“Literally anything else, Granger. I mean come on, I wouldn’t be caught dead in this.” 

“But you _are_ dead.” she gestured to the woman. “You’re a ghost.”

The apparition rolled her eyes. “If I’m dead then so are you.” 

“Am I-”

“No, I should’ve known you’d take it that way.” she was digging through her pockets again, like she’d lost something that was always there. Instead of continuing the search, the woman leveled Hermione with a look. “So, you shag him yet?”

“I’m sorry _what?”_

The ghost sighed, shook her head. “Have you. _Shagged._ The. Dark. Lord?” she made sure to enunciate every word, infuriatingly concise. 

“Why would I-”

“For curiosity sake, scientific reasons, any reason, really. You might never get the chance again.” the woman wagged a finger. “You know you’re just as curious as it is wrong.”

“I can’t-”

“But you can. You kind of want to, I know that. ‘Else you wouldn’t be thinking of actually going through with your little seduction.” she tilted her head, a small smile on her lips. “And if you haven’t remembered, then you can’t be held accountable for your actions.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione’s tone rose with the question. “What am I supposed to be remembering?”

“Oh plenty of things-and no, I can’t tell you any of them; I’m not your spirit guide.” 

“So what, you’re just going to be vague and float away?” 

The ghost shrugged. “Isn’t that how these things work? I don’t do wisdom, we both know that. All I can say is that you have to pass this level.” 

Hermione frowned at the wording. “Why should I trust you?”

“Dunno, maybe you shouldn’t. I’m a bad influence on you.” she smiled far too widely. “Do me a favor, ask Draco how he feels about planes. You know how much I love pissing him off.”

Hermione couldn’t formulate a coherent string of words fast enough. 

The ghost started towards the bookshelves. “Let me know how it goes.” her tone singsong as she disappeared. A moment later, she popped back through. “Seriously, I want all the dirty details. Or I’ll haunt you-for real, Granger.” the woman disappeared once more, and Hermione let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. 

She took her time on the way back to where Draco was hiding, wondering if the conversation truly happened. The grey lady didn’t have a history of speaking, let alone asking for ‘dirty details’. It was another point on the list of things that didn’t make any fucking sense. Like the whomping willow’s existence, the way things seemed to only barely work out for them. Her sudden appearance at the school with no questions asked. The scars she didn’t remember ever receiving. The memories tainted with gunsmoke and dark magic. 

Less and less was making sense. The only thing that did these days, happened to be the thing with Draco, weird as that may be. 

She half-believed Draco’s theory that they _were_ high on LSD in some hellscape. Which was hellish enough a notion, as it stemmed from one of his garbage conspiracies. Something about a project Brussels or something. She didn’t take much stock in his ideas, seeing as they were nuts, but the more time they spent in the past, the more she could somehow believe it. 

Walking through the wards she’d set over the alcove, she stepped around the books strewn everywhere, the parchment littering the floor. Without truly thinking about it, she blurted the words instead of a greeting. “How do you feel about planes?”

He looked over the top of the book, eyes narrowed. “They’re death traps,” he muttered, quickly growing suspicious. “Have you somehow spoken to Pansy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are appreciated!
> 
> more of a filler chapter but it had to be done.
> 
> follow me on twitter you cowards- @3ft7ft77in


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